Sun's Rays On Dark Water
by CagedTroll
Summary: A hunt gone wrong and another unwanted move sends the Winchester household slowly spinning out of control. Teen!chesters, ties in with Dean's first kill.
1. Sam I

This is a young!Winchesters-story (Wee!chesters :) ). We know from _Bloodlust_ what Dean's first kill was like, but how did that come to be?

Brief warning about mistakes possibly to come: Where I live, one, maybe two _Supernatural_ episodes have aired, so my knowledge of the show consists of Season 2 episodes uploaded on the internet and Youtube videos. I try my best. If you do spot a mistake, please let me know I've made one - just don't spoil anything for me, please. I'll be getting my DVD's in about two weeks time. I sincerily hope you do enjoy this, because it is definitely fun to write.

Disclaimer: I don't own _Supernatural_ nor anything affiliated with it either and am not making any money with this story. Just playing in someone else's sandbox.

* * *

**Sam I**

* * *

Warm sunlight masking the cold outside filtered through the window and drew patterns on the table, giving the room an incredibly peaceful feeling that few people safe for Sam Winchester associated with algebra tests. The twelve-year-old smiled as he calculated the last problem again, resulting – as with all problems he had double-checked before – in the same solution as the first round. He laid his pencil down and stole a quick glance at his neighbor, Ben Stine. Ben didn't look quite as relaxed and at ease at Sam did, but he returned the young Winchester's smile. 

There were two small robins in the hedge outside his classroom window, chirping happily. Sam settled down to watch them with a content grin. He was doing okay. He had settled in at his new school, in his new surroundings, and he was doing okay. He always liked attending school, but here, he actually loved it. Especially Advanced Math with Mr. Leeway, the man who had just graduated and talked about his subject with a fiery passion that Sam had fallen for the moment he first heard him speak.

Mr. Leeway had seated him in the first row, at the window, as if he knew instinctively that Sam loved watching the world outside whenever he finished early, like now. He still had five more minutes to go until break time and his teacher didn't appear the least surprised to see he was already done. He rose from his seat and approached Sam's desk, speaking quietly so as not to disturb those who were still working.

"Finished, Sam?"

As he nodded, Mr. Leeway took the paper with a smile that Sam so rarely saw from his father and that made him glow with pride every time.

He contented himself with another look at the robins and waited until the teacher turned his back to him, a small smile on his face as he skimmed Sam's answers, before leaning over to steal a quick glance at what problem Ben was working on.

"_X equals 5_," he hissed. Ben whispered his thanks as he jotted the answer down and Sam allowed himself a small smile.

Ben was alright, Sam liked his tall, video-game obsessed neighbor. They had hit it off right away when Sam had first whispered the solution to a problem to him. Ben had bribed Sam into helping him with his homework by offering him the cookies that came with his lunch – mainly because they had almonds in them and Ben was allergic to them, but Sam pretended not to know that. Eventually, gratitude had turned into friendship, and now they stuck together whenever they were in the same class.

Ben scribbled a last line and passed the test to their teacher, winking at Sam and mouthing _"Cookie"_. Sam smiled, his eyes returning to the birds. They seemed to tease each other, shoving and pushing each other along the branches and Sam felt oddly reminded of him and Dean. The bigger one even seemed to smirk, too.

Mr. Leeway was just collecting the tests of the last strugglers and Ben had just opened his mouth to say something when the door opened, admitting the head of the school secretary, a young woman with ridiculously curly hair and –when seen completely – legs that would have made Dean swoon.

"Sam Winchester to the principal's office," she said with her business voice and was gone just as quickly as she had appeared. Sam's cheek colored as every head turned in his direction. He glanced at Mr. Leeway who gave his assent with a small nod. Slinging his backpack over shoulder, he took his pencil, mouthed "See you at lunch" to Ben and made his way to the door, keenly aware of every pair of eyes fixed upon him.

* * *

Trudging along the still-deserted hallways, Sam felt as though he were walking his last mile. Which was ridiculous, because he hadn't done anything wrong. Quite the opposite, he was doing great, especially considering they had only moved here three months ago. He was already top of three classes, history, politics and PE – he had nearly laughed out loud when he had learned this year's subject was self-defense. And Miss Arden had offered him free piano lessons. He still hadn't told Dean about that one, though, let alone Dad. 

The hallways were dimly-lit and glum, like a dungeon. It was hard to imagine that the last time he had walked through them, they had been filled with hundreds of chattering students. Students that now desperately awaited the bell that sent them off to lunch, unaware of the misery Sam suffered as he timidily knocked on the door with a frosted glass window marked _Principal_. A professional "Come in," was the reply and he turned the doorknob, half expecting to find himself face to face with police officers, social workers or the newest Monster Of The Day. Who he did find himself face to face with was not any less scary (at least sometimes) and only slightly less worrying. Opposite the secretary behind her desk were a row of chairs, and on one of them sat, his elbows propped on his knees, an all too familiar figure.

"Dad," he exclaimed, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

His father forced a small smile onto his face.

"Hey, Sammy."

Sam glanced at the secretary who looked like she was trying to appear busy while listening in on their every word, at the second door that he supposed the principal's office was behind, and then at his Dad again.

Shutting the door gently behind him, he went to stand next to him, lowering his voice.

"What are you doing here?"

His father glanced at the secretary as well, tilting his head so Sam blocked most of the sound from reaching her ears with his body.

"Dean's been injured," he said softly.

"Is he okay?" Sam asked immediately, worry drowning out the small voice at the back of his head that screamed _"He wouldn't be here just because of that!"_

Dad nodded.

"Strained his shoulder, but other than that, it's just cuts and bruises."

Something was off here. Seriously off. Why would his Dad come to school just to tell him that Dean was fine? Something in his head screamed the obvious at him, but he refused to even acknowledge the possibility. He looked down at his hands, suddenly ridiculously aware he was still holding his pencil and slid it into his backpack, adjusting the strap on his shoulder.

"Dad…"

His question was cut short as the door to the principal's office opened and the man stepped out, holding out a large envelope for Dad to take.

"Ah, I see Sam has arrived," he said with a smile in his direction.

"Here you go, Mr. Winchester. This should be everything."

Sam glanced from one man to the other suspiciously. Everything what?

Dad nodded.

"Thank you for everything, Mr. Tanner."

The principal smiled at Sam in a way that the boy couldn't quite place.

"Well, we're sorry to lose such a fine student."

He shook Dad's hand, smiled at Sam again and shut the door behind him.

Realization hit Sam as if it were his father's truck speeding towards some nasty supernatural critter.

"We're moving?" he asked a little too loudly, his voice cracking.

"Sam…"

His father's voice had a warning tone to it, low yet hard to miss. It was the "Make a scene and you'll regret it"-tone which, more often than not, had no effect on Sam whatsoever. It worked on Dean, yes, but Dean hadn't even heard it half as often as Sam because Dean followed orders.

And Sam didn't.

He wouldn't even have allowed Dad to usher him out of the office into the hall had not his entire body refused to function. They were moving. Again. He had to start from scratch once more. Only it wasn't 'once'. No, as soon as he got settled in, they moved away. Every. Single. Time. Well, not this time, not if he had any say in the matter.

"I'm not moving!" he said loudly.

"_Sam."_

His father glared at him and Sam could feel his defiant expression falter. But he couldn't give up. He couldn't leave. He couldn't. There was Ben. There was Mr. Leeway. There was Jake, his chem lab partner he'd been friends with ever since they set their table on fire by accident. And then there was Zoe Cassidy, the girl who beat him on every single Latin test and had only yesterday smiled at him in a way that made his stomach fuzzy and his brain shut down.

"I'm not moving," he repeated, holding fast onto the anger that threatened to evaporate under his father's threatening gaze.

His face darkening quickly, Dad opened his mouth to speak, but the sound of his cell phone ringing saved Sam. Dad dug it out of his pocket quickly, snapping it open to grunt an irritated greeting.

Sam stepped back, safely out of Dad's reach as the man tried to take him by the upper arm, his usual no-nonsense grip. Distracted by the phone, he unintentionally allowed Sam to escape as he grunted into the speaker.

"Jason, this is a bad time. Yeah, I know. I'll be there."

Angry butterflies fought in Sam's chest. His father couldn't even pay attention to him in a situation like this?

"I'm not moving," he said for the third time, his jaw tightening with anger.

His father made a wild grab for him but Sam danced out of his way, screaming this time.

"I'M NOT MOVING!"

Somewhere along the corridor, a door opened, but Sam was too angry to care.

"I'll call you back," Dad ended his conversation, his tone cold and deadly. They stood in silence for a moment, Sam trying very hard not to blink, swallow or somehow else let his father know that he was scared out of his wits. Then Dad moved, so quickly Sam barely even saw it before the hand tightened around his arm in a vice-like grip. Dad said nothing, just gave him a very, _very_ angry look, the kind that even Sam knew better than to defy, and steered him towards the exit. Sam bit down on his lip so hard he could feel the copper taste fill his mouth as he stumbled along. They _were_ moving again, and it was sheer willpower that stopped the tears from rolling down his face.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Loved it, hated it, found something I should improve? Please let me know. 


	2. Sam II

So, a big Thank You to those who added me to their watchlist and sammygirl1963 for the review. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well.  
**

* * *

**

Sam II

* * *

Dad kept his hand on Sam's back all the way from the parking space to the door, but there was nothing affectionate about the gesture. It rather appeared as though he was half-expecting Sam to take off and wanted to be prepared. Sam ground his teeth together so tightly it hurt, refusing to speak a single word to his father, refusing to even _look_ at him, but if Dad noticed, he didn't acknowledge the fact. Thrusting his key into the lock forcefully, he pushed it open with his foot and almost shoved the boy inside. 

Loud clanking greeted them. Dean, his stocky frame covered by a t-shirt that did almost nothing to conceal the many tiny scratches on his arms, stood in the kitchen surrounded by a ridiculously small number of cardboard boxes. He paused as they appeared in the doorway, several dishes in hand, but the smile on his face faltered as he saw their faces. There were several deep gashes on his cheek, but for the first time in his life, Sam was too upset to ask him if he was okay.

Dad's voice was quiet.

"I thought I told you no heavy lifting, son."

Another wave of anger flared up in Sam's chest as Dean let his gaze drop. How dare Dad make his brother feel bad after all he had been through when he just wanted to help?

"Come on, it's just dishes, Dad," Dean said, in a quiet voice that didn't sound like Dean at all. He tilted his head so he could sneak a glance at Dad without actually raising his head. As if Dad was a dangerous animal he didn't want to provoke.

The comparison struck Sam as so true he suddenly had the mad desire to laugh, but he might as well have signed his death warrant; so he kept still, one hand tightening around the strap of his backpack. Dean was actually helping and now Dad was cross at him for that? Sam shifted his weight silently, almost unconsciously preparing for a fight. If Dad wanted to get to Dean, then he would have to go through Sam.

But apparently Dean couldn't stand the silence anymore, or the accusing stare, and he held a platter into the air.

"Dad, seriously. This is not heavy lifting."

Dad opened his mouth, probably to warn him not to dish out any smart-ass now, but Dean raised a defensive hand.

"Yes, I'm aware that my shoulder is bust, probably a lot more than you are because it hurts like a bitch. But heavy lifting is carrying around your tons of notes, not putting porcelain into boxes."

Sam nearly dropped his backpack in surprise as a small smile flickered around the corner of Dad's mouth.

"Mind the language, young man."

Dean placed two fingers at his temple in a quiet salute.

"Yes, sir."

He pointed at a box amidst the array.

"The gear is in the one marked "Attic". I already packed the bathroom and living room stuff, so that just leaves your rooms."

A sheepish look crossed his face as Sam's expression darkened once more.

Sam could see his Dad suppress a sigh.

"Sam, go upstairs and pack."

Dad really did sigh as Sam didn't move a muscle.

"Now, Sam. Unless you want me to pack for you."

With an angry glare back at his father, Sam headed to his room, slamming the door shut behind him. No, he didn't want that. Dad had "packed" Sam's things once before, when Sam was eleven. (Was that really just eighteen months ago? They had to have moved at least four times since then.) He had taken a box, thrown some of Sam's clothes in, and that was it. No books, no toys, not even a picture. Sam had been angry at him for days, but as always, it hadn't changed a thing.

Dashing angry tears away with the back of his hand, he opened his backpack, turning it upside down over the trash can.

_There goes your life, Sam. Again._

With a sigh, he reached into the wastebasket and pulled out a book that had been stored at the very bottom of his backpack and now lay at the very top.

_Legal System Of The United States Of America_

His politics teacher had recommended it to him, for the presentation she wanted him to do. It would have gotten him the extra credit he needed to apply for a programme for exceptional students. He'd even bought the book from his own pocket money. It'd cost twelve bucks, too, nearly all of Sam's savings. And he hadn't even read it yet.

Heaving another sigh, Sam let it drop back, taking the cardboard box Dean had placed on the floor for him. One box and a backpack to store his life in. He knew better than to take more than he was allowed; he had experienced first-hand that Dad had no qualms about just leaving boxes he deemed unnecessary behind, not caring in the slightest about the treasured possessions hidden inside.

Shoving his clothes into the box was the easiest part. Most of them were hand-me-downs from Dean anyway, and what was too worn out or in danger of getting too short in the near future was simply left in the closet. His bookcase was definitely the bigger challenge. He let his fingers trail over the spines of the books, reading the familiar titles. For a brief moment, he found himself thinking that maybe they weren't moving at all. Maybe they were just going on some weird vacation, because he knew that before you went on vacation, you thought about what books to bring and what would just stay on the shelves, awaiting your return. Not that they'd ever gone on a vacation. But people had told him that was what you did.

He paused when his fingertips touched the rough paper cover of a book entitled _Our Endangered Species_. The one he had wished for so desperately last Christmas.

Dean had asked for a knife. He'd gotten a beautifully crafted and extremely vicious looking one, it scared Sam a little. Sam had asked for his endangered species book. He'd gotten a basketball.

He'd tried his best to hide his disappointment but it must have shone through anyway, because the next time they were in town, Dean had actually gone into a bookstore and bought the book for him from his own pocket money, making him swear to never ever tell Dad when he gave it to him.

And he sure as hell wasn't going to. Right now he doubted he'd ever speak a single word to him again.

He placed the book in his backpack and went back to work, slowly making his way through his belongings. Only when he had judged over every single item he possessed did his gaze fall on his bedside table. Right next to his nightlamp stood a framed picture of his parents. It had been Dean's, originally, and was passed on to him after the "Dad packs Sammy's stuff"-fiasco. For a brief, vicious moment, Sam considered leaving it behind, but then he snatched it quickly, burying it at the very bottom of his box between a couple of old t-shirts.

* * *

Half an hour later, they were about ready to leave. Dad had ordered them both into the car as he did his last round, unfazed by the fact that Sam refused to even look at him as he stalked off towards the vehicle. So they sat, Sam squished into the back with boxes full of Dad's notes and Dean squirming around in the passenger seat, trying to find a comfortable position for his shoulder, wincing it brushed against the back of his seat. 

Sam bolted upright immediately.

"You okay, Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," his brother brushed him off with a shaky smile.

"Hey, listen, kiddo, I'm sorry."

Sam had trouble believing his ears.

"What? Why?"

"Because if I'd've gotten that sonovabitch before it got me, it wouldn't have skipped town, and then we wouldn't have to follow it."

Sam slumped back into his seat with a dry laugh.

"You actually believe that?"

Dean sighed unhappily, but Sam couldn't feel anything but anger.

"We would've moved at some point anyway, because we always do."

He wanted to say more, to say what he thought about Dad right now, but Dean looked miserable. And Dean just didn't look miserable. His shoulder had to be hurting worse than Sam thought.

"So, how'd the hunt go, anyway?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation into safer waters, but it didn't help much. Dean just looked sad now, in a way that Sam couldn't quite put his finger on.

"You and Dad didn't talk much before you got to the arguing, did you?"

Sam opened his mouth but Dean turned to the front, propping his feet against the dashboard.

"It was okay, actually. We went out to the cabin in Gacy's Wood, the run-down one that that sucker was using as its lair."

"So was it a woodwose?" Sam asked, trying to keep his voice level. He didn't want to sound excited, after all, but he _had_ spent the last three and a half weeks arguing his case with Dad and he at least had the right to know he'd been correct.

"Yeah."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Friggin' Bigfoot, Dude."

"A bigfoot," Sam couldn't help correcting, "What's it look like?"

His brother shuddered.

"Like a walking ape, let me tell ya. Huge. Hairy as hell and ugh, the _smell_."

He snickered.

"Kinda like you, actually."

"Jerk."

Sam aimed a half-hearted kick at him.

"So, what went wrong?"

Dean sighed.

"I was waiting at the back door, covering for Dad and to cut off its escape route. We had it all planned, you know, what when how, but it saw Dad coming and took off. I was in its way and that thing just launched itself at me. I fired at it but missed, it smashed me against a beam and that pretty much took care of me. And then it just took off out the door."

Sam sighed, knowing full well that Dean was blaming himself that the hunt had failed.

"So how'd you get the cuts?"

Dean raised an eyebrow at him.

"It had claws, Sam."

He shrugged.

"I don't mind. Chicks dig scars."

"I meant the cuts on your arm, Dude," Sam corrected him with a frown, "What'd it do, poke you with a needle?"

If he hadn't known better, he would have said Dean was blushing.

"Well, technically, it didn't have anything to do with it."

"Technically."

Dean groaned.

"Dude, do you _have_ to know everything?"

He frowned at Sam's smirk.

"Okay, so after I crashed into the wall and strained my shoulder – damn near broke my shoulder blade, too – I kinda fell on my face, only that all the windows in the damn cottage were broken and the entire floor was covered in glass splinters. Took forever to get the pieces out of my arms."

He gave Sam a dirty look as if daring him to laugh.

"Happy now, Samantha?"

Sam, his smile suddenly forgotten, glared at the world outside.

"Yeah, I would be, if we weren't moving."

He could see Dean's anger vanishing as quickly as his had appeared and his brother turned back around to face him.

"Hey, listen, Sammy, it'll get better. Maybe we'll stay there longer this time. I don't know, maybe a year or two. We stayed in places for a year before."

Sam stared at Dean's hopeful face and wished he could believe him. Not just for his sake, but for Dean's, too. Not necessarily because of the moving but because he hated it when Sam was upset. And maybe even for Dad's sake. But thinking about Dad right now just made the angry butterflies flutter and fight. Sam shut him out of his mind, allowing only himself and Dean to be there, and the thought of maybe staying somewhere for good.

_Like it ever changes._

Still watching his face hopefully, Dean tried a smile.

"Yeah?"

Sam sighed as he let his head tilt back, closing his eyes.

"Yeah," he muttered softly.

* * *

The new house, Sam thought to himself, looked suspiciously like the old one – the same flaky paint and yellowed wallpaper, the same grayed carpet. It was even smaller, though, and even less well-kept. The furniture that apparently came with it was worn-out and improvised, and the metal skeleton of a bunk bed in the room he shared with Dean looked like it came straight from the nearest base. At least it was a house. Sam couldn't bear to think of the humiliation it would have caused him to admit to his classmates – again – that he lived in a motel. 

As he placed the contents of the box labeled "Kitchen" in the drawers and cupboards, Sam wrinkled his nose. As much as he hated to admit it, his anger at his father was slowly subsiding and he could actually feel himself submitting to his fate.

Soft tones from upstairs told him Dean had finished clearing out his share of the boxes and was now probably sitting on his lower bunk with his guitar. When Sam strained his ears, he could almost make out Metallica in the soft strumming. A soft smile captured Sam's lips for the first time in what felt like days. Dean's guitar, his prized possession, was battered and out of tune beyond repair; it was really saying something about Dean's skills that Sam was able to recognize the song at all.

And he did practice quite a bit. He said it was because it impressed women, but Sam would swear that while Dean was absent-mindedly strumming along, he seemed strangely at ease. As if he stopped thinking and just concentrated on doing.

Placing the last bit of cutlery in a drawer, Sam crept up the stairs, appearing in the door frame to their room as quietly as he could. Dean noticed him anyway, a smile slowly broadening on his face as he continued to play. He finished with a low note before raising his eyebrows at Sam as if to ask "What's up, kiddo?"

Sam trailed into the room slowly, one hand still on the frame as if to steady himself.

"Dean? Do you think playing the piano is weird?"

Dean's eyes, wide open in disbelief, told him enough.

"Dude, pianos are for _chicks_. Real men play the six-strings."

He grinned his trademark shark grin and patted the bed next to him.

"Come on, Sasquatch. Let's see what you got."

Sam obeyed hesitantly, taking the instrument from his brother. They sat together, Sam awkwardly plucking at the strings with Dean tearing at his hair in horror, and they stayed that way until Dad came and ordered them to bed.

* * *

All books mentioned in this chapter are purely fictional. Any similarities to real life books are purely coincidental and not intended by the author. :) 

Review - make my day.


	3. Sam III

A big thanks to everyone who read and gave me feedback. I really appreciate it.

Credit for the inspiration for the guitar scene goes out to my big brother - I heart you, Dude, and I'm going to miss you.

So, this chapter is short and very musings heavy - not really a lot of action, folks, sorry. It's Sam's fault, really. The kid just thinks too much. ;)**

* * *

**

**Sam III**

**

* * *

**

One benefit of their new home – possibly the only one – was its location. While it was, as always, a small house in a run-down part of town, surprisingly it was located almost directly on the banks of a small lake. It was that fact that just about reconciled Sam with the situation, even if he had barely said a word to his father in the last 36 hours.

Sam loved the sound of water. It did wonders for his concentration when he wanted to study, which came in extra handy if Dean and/or Dad were around. Sam wasn't sure if it was the military training, but when those two talked to each other, every sentence was either an order, a reprimand, a salute or barked praise.

Sam couldn't stand that. He loved it when Dean talked to him late at night when he couldn't fall asleep, because then his voice was soft and comforting and didn't seem to demand exclamation points at the end of every sentence. It was a little like the silky voice Dean had when he talked to girls. Sam understood why they melted away when they heard it. It was soft and smooth and promising and Sam had no idea where he got it from, because it sure as hell didn't come from Dad.

Dean's constant need to watch over him like a mother hen was also something he didn't seem to get from Dad. Sam loved his brother more than he could say, more than anyone, maybe even more than Dad. He never felt more safe or at ease than when Dean was right next to him to make everything all right. But sometimes, sometimes, he preferred Dad's "Take it like a man" to Dean's habit of treating Sam like he was about to be killed or kidnapped or do something stupid and dangerous.

Despite what everyone appeared to think, Sam was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He had stayed by himself plenty of times whenever Dad had so-called "daylight-hunts" – when he took care of something during the day when Sam was supposed to be in school. Dean was supposed to be in school then, too, but he had somehow convinced Dad that higher education was lost on him anyway, so every once in a while Dad wrote him a note that he had to help with the "family business" and they took off. Both of them hated leaving Sam to his own devices, he knew that, even if he felt a stab of annoyance every time he heard of another hunt that had been called off because of him. He wasn't a baby anymore, but somehow he doubted Dean and Dad would ever see it that way. They rarely hunted without him (if there was an emergency, Dean almost always stayed home while Dad took care of it), and if they did, they were generally back before dark. But sometimes it was too far or too complicated and then they went away for three days or so, generally over the weekend. It wasn't really a lot of time to spend on his own, but he'd learned to take care of himself very early on that way. He did his own laundry, he bought groceries, he could even cook, too. Mostly military food, but it was quite as edible as what Dean and Dad produced, thank you very much.

Admittedly, he still wasn't too fond of dark closets, but that was nothing locking every door and keeping a tight hold of the .45 Dad left him every time couldn't cure. Reading a book always distracted him, too, and he usually went to bed with the knowledge that he had stood his ground bravely.

Right now he just wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

He turned to look at Dean, pleading with him with his eyes, but his brother just thumped his back.

"See, that's not so bad, now is it?"

Staring up at the building they were standing in front of, Sam couldn't disagree more. His new school looked like it was haunted, infected by poltergeists and swarming with vampires all at the same time. A tall stone building with small windows and an iron fence around it – Sam wasn't sure if it was to keep people out or in.

On cue, and so ridiculously clichéed it was hard to believe, a cold breeze picked up, tugging at Sam's mess of dark hair. Dean shuddered as he turned his collar up against the cold.

"Listen, kiddo, my school's ten minutes that way, so…"

Sam knew what he wasn't saying. If Dean hung around any longer, he was going to be late, so could Sam _please_ turn off the puppy dog eyes and the miserable look and go?

Sam forced a smile.

Dean grinned, giving him the thumbs up.

"Don't blow them away all at once, kiddo," he said with a wink and strolled off, turning his head to follow two giggling blondes with his eyes.

Sam sighed as he adjusted the straps of his backpack, wishing not for the first time he could feign confidence like Dean could. Dean sauntered along as if he owned the pavement he walked on, his squared shoulders making up for anything he lacked in height. Dean, when left on his own, began to shine. Sam felt as if he was shrinking with every step he took towards the entrance doors. He knew he would be okay once he had received the curriculum and could bury himself in the task of catching up or working ahead, but the way there appeared longer and more dangerous the closer he came. He closed his eyes in horror, slowly opening them again to stare at the building towering above him. His ascent of the stairs seemed to take an eternity, and as he closed his ridiculously small, chubby fingers around the handle of the doors, he couldn't shake the feeling he had just sealed his fate.

* * *

Two periods in, Sam wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. He'd been to awful schools before, but this one took the cake, hands down. There were a few kids who didn't look like they would bash his head in if he dared to ask them a question and the student advisor who had given him his schedule and a map of the building had been nice enough. He'd even wished Sam good luck, too. 

From the looks of things, Sam was going to need it. His history class, generally his favorite course aside from politics, had nearly put him to sleep. He was way ahead of schedule and the teacher looked like she actually wanted to sit on her sofa with her cats, chattering away with and about the neighbors. She taught like it, too. Sam had never understood Dean's tendency to doze off in class before, but as he listened to Mrs. Farewellow (what kind of a name was that, anyway?) drone about the long and tedious journey of the first pilgrims in an equally long and tedious lecture, he vowed to never argue with Dean about that again.

Science class was even less informative and somewhat disgusting – the reproductive system of the earthworm. Sam had poked the slimy creature under his microscope with a sigh while his classmates behind him had a dirt and worm throwing match and vowed to never tease Dean about his short attention span again, either.

And he had wandered off during break only to discover the boys' bathroom was flooded.

Sam briefly wondered if Dad would let him come home if he called him and told him he'd caught the flu before he remembered they weren't really speaking. Letting out a sharp breath of frustration he wandered outside into the school's tiny garden and watched his terrible, dirty rotten, no good day take a sharp turn for the worse.

Thugs. Four of them. They sat behind a bush, smoking. The jackets they wore had emblems of some high school that wasn't Dean's and they were probably football players or something because even with him being a little chubby, every single one of them was twice as wide as Sam was. Sam stared at them, probably looking stupid, wasting precious seconds when really he should have just turned and run. One of the bigger ones saw him first, nudging the others. He rose and the others followed his example, crowding around Sam in a way that let him know, even if nothing else had, that he was in trouble.

"Well, well, what do we have here…"

And weren't those the oldest opening lines ever.

The one who had spotted him, Sam pegged him as the leader of the group, smiled at him with an evil gleam in his eye.

"A new kid."

Sam really didn't like the look on his face, no, not one bit.

The leader looked at his companions with a smile that suddenly made history class with Mrs. Farewellow sound like the most enjoyable thing that had ever happened to him.

"And what do we do with new kids…?"

"We introduce ourselves?" the one on his right asked with a loud guffaw.

The leader nodded as he turned back to Sam with an evil smile twisting the corners of his mouth upwards.

"That's right, Marcus," he said pleasantly, "We introduce ourselves."

* * *

I'm sorry about this, I really am. I didn't realize how absolutely overused the Sam VS. bullies plot was until after I finished this chapter. But it's done now, and I'd love to hear what you think. 


	4. Dean I

As always, thank you so much for the reviews, I appreciate each and every one of them.

That said - I love writing Dean. I'm a SanGirl (Sam Fangirl) all the way, but there's just so much untapped potential with Dean. Needless to say that this chapter just kind of... exploded.

Sam's narrator part of the story is hereby officially over - but I, being depressed this weekend, couldn't resist writing him anyway. Go check out the result here: remember, reviews are a girl's best friend. :)

Oh - there's also some language. It's sixteen-year-old Dean, dudes.**

* * *

**

Dean I

* * *

The clock was rigged.

Dean was sure of it. No clock that wasn't rigged could actually move that slowly. The hands crawled along, mocking Dean's attempts to stay awake. He rarely made the effort and now it seemed the entire world was against him. Or at least Mr. Altman and that fucked-up clock of his. Mr. Altman, his teacher, had looked in his direction pointedly several times now, but Dean couldn't be bothered to pay attention. He had to admit the guy's teeth were rather interesting (maybe he was related to Bugs Bunny?), but why stare at a middle-aged, balding dude when there was Jordan, one seat to the front, one to the right, to watch?

She wasn't his usual type, more quietly intelligent, but he found himself staring at the way she flipped her ponytail and she had the prettiest smile he'd seen in ages. And every time she strayed from taking notes long enough to glance out the window, her head turned way too far, as if maybe she wasn't looking outside at all but rather hoping to catch a glimpse of someone sitting slightly behind her.

His eyes strayed as she returned to scribbling notes. Kathy was on his left and maybe he shouldn't start thinking about commitment just yet. A small girl with dark hair and dark eyes that gleamed humor at him as they locked eyes for the briefest moment before she returned to passing notes back and forth with the girl on her other side, Elenore.

Dean sighed, maltreating his pencil with his teeth. Jordan stared out the window again, only this time she turned her head far enough to catch his gaze. He winked at her and could hardly hide a satisfied smirk as she blushed crimson, whipping around in her seat to stare at the board again.

Idly, Dean scribbled a caricature of his teacher onto his notepad. He smiled at his handiwork – even though even he had to admit Mr. Altman's teeth weren't _that_ huge –, stifled a yawn and flipped ahead in the textbok. _Explain the importance of the Constitution to America as we know it today_. This was Sammy stuff. His kid brother knew this kind of shit, he didn't. He knew how to banish ghosts and exorcise demons. Wasn't that enough?

Elenore excused herself to go to the bathroom, leaving Kathy to stare into the air, drumming her fingers against her cheek. Right now, she loooked just about as bored as Dean felt, and that was truly saying something. Maybe he should just whisk her away from Mr. Buckteeth. They could elope to Mexico. It sounded like a good plan to him until he suddenly had a vision of himself explaining that bit to his father – because there was no way in hell his father wouldn't find him.

"I had to do it, Dad – a lady would have been bored if I hadn't."

Dean grinned to himself as he imagined the look on his father's face. Definitely not a good enough excuse to save him, nope. Even though that made some kick-ass last words.

"Mr. Winchester! Would you care to elaborate exactly what it is you find so incredibly funny?"

Apparently, Mr. Huge-Ass Teeth Altman hadn't taken kindly to Dean's snicker. Dean wondered briefly if he had done something to piss this dude off – apart from obviously not paying attention and trying to distract his neighbors – but the guy was seething and demanding an answer. Slowly, everyone's heads turned his way. Dean didn't mind, he had been the class clown and used to the attention since pre-school.

Of course, he should just keep his head down and his profile low and say something soothing. But this Altman guy was asking for it.

"I was just admiring your-"

Teeth.

"Classroom."

Altman forced a world-class pissed off smile onto his face.

"Oh, really? And why, may I ask?"

Dean picked out an especially innocent smile for the occasion. While the intelligent part of his brain – he was going to name it Sammy one of these days – screamed and begged for him to stop, the rest of his grey cells relished in the moment – a new teacher to terrorize with a whole class of kids watching him was just too good of an opportunity to pass up.

"I don't know."

He shrugged.

"It's just… interesting."

"Interesting _how_?" Altman asked cautiously. At least he knew when danger was brewing, Dean had to give him that.

That didn't stop him in the slightest, though.

"You see, normally, when someone tries to put people to sleep, they put up a few beds. Not try to talk them into a coma."

Around him, several heads bowed to hide heir laughter.

Altman glared at him.

"Very funny, Mr. Winchester. How about detention on Saturday?"

"Well, _you_ can if you want, but I think I'm gonna have to take a rain check on that."

Some part of Dean actually winced as the words left his mouth. The – considerably bigger – part of him was enjoying this way too much.

"You're lucky I'm not making it two."

Somehow, Dean managed to keep his mouth shut. After a few seconds of silence, the teacher returned to the lesson and Dean returned to staring out the window. He glanced up in surprise as the guy on his right passed him a slip of paper.

_If there's more of where that came from, how about joining me and the guys after school for a smoke?_

_Paul_

Dean stared at the word "smoke" for a moment. His Dad would kill him.

Turning to his neighbor, he made a point of looking the guy up and down.

"Sorry, not interested," he said with a shark's grin, "But you can buy me lunch tomorrow."

Paul took it the right way and grinned as he nodded.

"It's a date," he whispered, earning himself an icy Altman glare.

Dean turned to the window once more to find Kathy staring at him.

"Are you _always_ this dumb?"

"Isn't it great?" he retorted and was rewarded by an amused eye roll.

"Mr. Winchester, unless you want to spend your Saturday mornings in detention for the rest of the moth, I suggest you keep your mouth shut."

Dean beamed. His first day and he had already made an enemy. This was going to be great.

* * *

Dropping his keys on the counter and his bag on the floor, Dean pulled open the refrigerator door. 

"I'm home!" he called into the house.

"Don't you dare touch the leftover pizza!" was his father's sharp reply.

Dean placed the slice back on the platter with a rueful smile. Psychic Dad. Wait 'till he told the guys at school about that one.

Appearing in the door frame to his father's study, he looked down at his father seated in the middle of the floor, surrounded by endless books, sheets and scraps of paper.

"Where's Sammy?"

His father looked up from the drawing of a symbol used to ward of demons.

"I haven't seen him," he admitted.

"Say, does Ala mean anything to you? I'm sure I've read it somewhere before, but…"

Dean was about to reply when the door slammed, followed by the sound of hasty footsteps on the stairs.

He stepped into the hall, furrowing his brows.

"Sam?"

"I'm not hungry!" was called back to him. The bathroom door was forcefully pushed shut and locked before he even had a chance to think of anything to say.

Dad sighed as he rose, cracking his neck.

"It's a good thing we don't have anything to eat then."

He took his care keys from where he had placed them on a shelf.

"I'm going to go out for groceries. Will you take care of Sammy for me?"

It was an age-old question, asked more out of habit than anything else, but Dean nodded anyway, eyes trailing to the landing.

"Sure, Dad. I don't think he's going anywhere, though."

* * *

As the days passed, Dean had to admit he was getting worried. 

Sammy being even moodier and sulkier than usual was a common occurrence after a move, but he usually came around after a few days, stumped everyone at school into stunned silence by acing some tests and made if not friends, then at least a few study buddies. Sam might be the uber-geek, but he wasn't unsociable. He figured out quickly who to talk to and it was never long before he spent entire afternoons in the library with the local nerds.

Not this time, though. If anything, he was behaving even weirder than usual, especially when Dean walked in on him pacing in their room one day.

Dean leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Sam wandered to and fro in front of the window, waving his hands wildly, muttering to himself. With a blind eye to his surroundings like that, it was no wonder Dad didn't take him out on hunts more. And Sammy really didn't seem to notice him as he stopped, his face scrunched up in utter dispair.

"…I don't _have_ any money," he mumbled just loud enough for Dean to understand.

"Yeah, well, no shit, Sherlock," Dean commented, "When have we ever had money?"

Sam spun around, turning paler than that corpse they'd dug up not six weeks ago. Which was actually a neat trick, Dean would have to remember that one for later.

He uncrossed his arms, moving to sit on his bed.

"So, what'd'cha need money for, kiddo?"

"Nothing," Sammy squeaked.

Dean smiled.

"And that's why you're all upset because you don't have any. Nice try. Get talking, kiddo."

"Nothing," Sammy repeated, drilling the tip of his shoe into the carpet like he always did when he was lying. "Just school stuff. I promise."

Dean leaned back, slightly ashamed at himself as he realized he was using the Dad-stare to try to get Sammy talking.

Sam faltered, but only a little and Dean started fearing for the day when Dad's threatening wouldn't work on him anymore. Not because he wanted Sam to be afraid of their father, but because that would mean arguments that _never_ ended. He might as well shoot himself right then and there.

"Seriously, Sammy," he said, softening the stare and his tone, "what is it?"

"School stuff," his brother repeated stubbornly and stared at him for a moment as if waiting for Dean to challenge him again. When it didn't happen, he walked out stiffly.

Dean massaged his temple. He wasn't used to this stuff. Sammy and Dad fighting, that was one thing, but Sam had never taken out his frustration on Dean before. He'd never blown him off so blatantly. Usually, Dean was the one Sam confided in when he would tell no one else, and Dean missed that right now. He could tell there was something going on, damn, he wasn't blind. But if there was something really wrong, Sam would tell him, right?

* * *

With Sulky Sammy and a less-than-thrilled-about-that father, Dean was rather astonished the hunt itself was progressing well. The woodwose had apparently made itself comfortable at his – their – current location and was unaware of being shadowed. It kept a low profile and hid itself in the woods. Dean wasn't sure why they hadn't moved in for the kill yet, but when he had asked his father about it, he merely received a grumbled reply about "being prepared". 

Whatever. Dean had taken to spending as much time as possible out of the house. He couldn't suppress the pang of guilt he felt every time he left his Dad and Sam to fend for their own, but them being cross at each other apparently now also resulted in them being frosty with Dean so he was doubly glad when his father sent him on an errant. Besides, there was something strangely satisfying about being approached by a man with shades, a suspiciously unsuspicious bag and a low "Dean Winchester?" on his lips. Slipping the man a few crumpled bills and walking away had shot a thrill up his spine that seemed to come straight from a James Bond movie. He was dying to know what was in the bag, but he didn't dare to open it. His Dad would know. Somehow, he would just know.

Venturing into the study with his prize, a brief, confused frown crossed his face when he found it empty.

"Dad?" he asked quietly.

Placing the bag on the ground, the frown now etched deeply into his face, he cocked his head to listen. After a few moments, he picked up on his father's rough voice, but he wasn't answering Dean's call, and he wasn't on this floor, either. Dean, was, to say the least, surprised. His father rarely ventured from his study into the far regions of the upstairs.

Creeping up the stairs quietly, he followed the sound of the voice gradually rising in volume until he could make out the words.

"Sammy, please. All right? Turn around, son."

Dean stopped at the door frame, unsure whether to laugh or cry at the scene before him. Sammy was lying in the lower bunk, facing the wall, his arms crossed in front of his chest. And there was his father, tugging awkwardly at the small shoulder with those gigantic hands of his.

"Son, if there's something bothering you, you need to _talk_ to me about it."

Dean bit back a disbelieving scoff.

Dad and talk? His father was an amazing hunter and a great leader, but talking and Sammy were not his strong suits. More likely than not, he'd listen to Sammy with one ear (while the rest of him was already preparing for the next hunt) and then tell him to suck it up and bear it like a man.

He cleared his throat lightly.

"What's going on?"

His father turned to look at him, Sammy didn't. Dad shrugged, his hands falling to his sides. At that moment, there was something in his eyes that Dean hoped he would never, ever see again: Dad, his Dad, actually looked helpless. He brushed it off quickly though, rising from the bed as if he had only been a substitute until Dean arrived.

"Did you get it?" he asked quietly, after one look back to his motionless son.

Dean nodded a little stiffly.

"It's in the study."

His father nodded and disappeared without another word, a hunter on a mission. Dean listened for the retreating footsteps on the stairs, hoping that maybe Sammy would come around if only Dean was there, but his kid brother just wouldn't budge.

Dean sighed, running a hand through his crew cut. Couldn't Dad just come back and give Sam a hug? Knowing full well the answer to that was _"Only in your dreams"_, Dean sat down on the very spot his Dad had just occupied, nudging Sam's shoulder gently.

"Come on, Sammy," he urged carefully, "tell me what's wrong."

Sam shook his head in a jerky nod, but at least he responded.

"Sammy, I _know_ something's wrong."

Head shake.

Dean tried the humorous approach.

"Well, there had better be something wrong, Sasquatch, 'cause you're lying on my bed."

Nothing.

Sam didn't move and Dean just sat there, with his hand on his shoulder, and wanted to scream.

* * *

It just got worse from there. Sam spent most of his time locked in the bathroom or lying somewhere, facing the wall and sulking. Their father rarely left his study anymore and chose to distract himself by pouring over his notes for the 100th time. And Dean… Dean kept his head down and pretended not to have trouble swallowing his food when their eyes shot daggers at each other. He couldn't fight the feeling he was the one holding them all together with some very fragile strings, but he was just about ready to ditch it all and just take off when he, stumbling into the kitchen one morning, eyes barely open, walked in on a conversation that would have been funny if it hadn't been so _wrong_. 

"Dad, I'm sick."

Sam was standing at the kitchen table, staring down at his father with a blaze in his eyes that seemed even worse than his usual one.

His father eyed him over the top of the newspaper.

"You don't look sick."

"I have the chicken pox."

"You had it when you were six."

"The measles, then."

"And you had _them_ when you were three."

"I have the flu."

"Sam, what is this really about?"

"I threw up last night."

"I didn't hear you."

"I can't go to school, _all right_? I can't."

Despite his irritated tone, Sam couldn't truly hide the desperation and Dean was sure his father picked up on it too, especially when he laid down the paper with a frown.

"And why not?"

When Sam didn't answer, he sighed.

"Okay, son, you can stay. But that will mean spending the entire day with _me_."

Sam's eyes, if possible, went even darker with rage as he stalked off to the door, not even bothering to wait up for Dean.

The teen sat down with a groan.

"Dad, this is wrong. Sammy loves school. He doesn't make up fake illnesses to avoid going."

"I know."

His father seemed to drift off in thought for a moment before his attention snapped back to Dean visibly.

"And you're late."

"Yeah, I know."

Dean reached for his bag with a sigh.

"Can I have your coffee?"

It was a bold question which immediately brought a frown to his father's features, but after a quick sideways glance that affirmed that the coffee pot was, indeed, empty, he handed over his mug without a sound.

Dean beamed a "Thank you, sir!" at him before hurrying after Sam.

* * *

Of course, the day somehow managed to get worse. He had a relatively pleasant day at school, spending his lunch hour cracking jokes with Paul and "the guys" and having a conversation with Lisa during Geometry that, if one were in a generous mood, could be interpreted as a flirt. In fact, he was in such a good mood after school that he completely forgot to dread going home until he unlocked the door and found himself facing stony silence. The entire house was silent, with fights waiting to be had lurking just around the corner. 

_Should have taken Steve up on that offer to go grab a coffee_, he chided himself.

"Dad?" he asked into the house.

There was a gruff "Yeah" from somewhere, but before he had the chance to locate him, the front door shut. Steps hurried up the stairs and as he followed the sound, he caught sight of Sammy's sneaker on the landing just before it disappeared around the corner.

Climbing the stairs with a deep sigh, Dean followed him. Their room was empty, but the bathroom door was shut.

He knocked.

"Hey, Sammy, it's me," he said quietly.

Dean drummed his fingers together impatiently as he waited for the sound of the key being turned in the lock. Or at least Sam's voice telling him to go away.

He knocked again, louder this time.

"Sammy, come on, open up."

Dean didn't bother to suppress a groan as the only response he got was a soft rustling that sounded suspiciously like Sam placing a towel over his ears. Sometimes he just hated his family.

Trudging down the stairs, his eyes widened at the sight of his father standing at the kitchen counter. The smell of simmering vegetables filled the air.

"Dad, what are you doing?"

His father didn't even look up.

"Cooking."

Stepping up to the stove, Dean peered into the pot. It looked edible enough.

"Well, duh," he retorted, earning himself a light smack to the back of his head, "I meant, why? It's not even four o'clock yet."

His father pointed at a few vegetables resting on the counter.

"Pass me those, would you? And yes, I'm aware it isn't even four o'clock yet, but I won't be here tonight."

"Where are you going?" Dean asked as he handed over the carrots, quietly hoping for a light hunt or maybe a routine possession – something he'd be allowed to partake in.

"To meet a contact of mine about the woodwose, and no, you can't come."

Dean groaned, earning himself another light smack.

"Why not? It's my fault that thing got away."

"No, it isn't," his father retorted without a moment's hesitation, as if he had known exactly this was coming, "And I need you to watch over Sammy."

"Why?"

His father's hand beckoned and Dean placed a knife in it.

"It's not like he even talks to me."

His father nodded grimly and Dean swallowed. As annoyed as he was with Sam's bitchiness at the moment, with the move and his on-going silent battle with their Dad, he was already going through enough. Enough without his big brother making it worse by not knowing when to shut up.

"He's just angry," he said quickly, hoping the emotionally understanding tour would soothe his dad a little.

At this, the man turned to look him directly in the eye.

"And we both know that angry Sam does dangerous things when left to his own devices, and that's why I need you to watch out for Sammy tonight, okay?"

Reluctantly, Dean nodded.

"Good. Now go set the table."

Dean complied with a little grumbling and it wasn't long before his father placed the pot on the table.

"Sam, dinner!" he called in the direction of the stairs before he pulled up a chair for himself.

There was no response from upstairs. Not even the sound of movement.

"Sam!" his father called again, a little louder this time.

"Where is that boy?" he asked, more to himself than to Dean.

Neither had time to answer the question, however, before soft footsteps could be heard and it wasn't long until Sam appeared on the stairs, his head bowed, turned sharply and headed for the door.

Dean didn't need to look at his father to know what a surprised face he wore, because Dean was wearing it too.

"Where are you going?"

The surprised question caused Sam to freeze, but he didn't turn.

"Out."

His voice was cold in a way that he couldn't have picked up from Dad because Dad's cold was a deadly, "You're in so much trouble"-cold. Sam's cold radiated hate and disdain in every direction. It made the hair on Dean's arms rise and he wasn't surprised when his Dad bristled, half rising from his seat.

"You are going to sit down at this table this instant."

Sam scoffed, and still he kept his face in profile.

"I'm afraid I'm going to decline."

Dad's surprised blink was definitely not a good blink. Not in a million years.

"Sam, sit your ass down, right now."

His father's tone was still incredibly gentle considering the circumstances. It had to be because of the astonishment at this not-Sam they were facing, because he would have raised a shouting match for a lot less.

Dean was sure his eyes were going to bulge out of his head when Sam smiled.

"Fuck you," he said almost sweetly, opened the door and threw it shut behind him with a slam that people must have heard halfway down the street.

* * *

(evil cackle) I'd love to hear what you think! 


	5. Dean II

Between my computer dying on me and spending most of the weekend watching Season 1, I'm actually pleasantly surprised I still finished this chapter in time.

The not so pleasant surprise (but thanks anyway) came when _Youngest Ones Rule_ pointed out to me that my monster of choice can't be a vampire because of what is said in 1x20, _Dead Man's Blood _- and s/he's right, damn it! Therefore, this fic is now ever so slightly AU. Well, that, or the boys just have a freakishly bad memory. Take your pick. ;)  
**ETA: Never mind - fixed!**

As always, review and I'll love you forever.

**

* * *

**

**Dean II**

**

* * *

**

For what seemed like forever, the two Winchester men just sat, dumbstruck. Dean blinked a few times, seriously starting to fear for Sam's mental health. Nobody spoke to their Dad like that, not even Sammy. Then Dad was wrenching open the door, bellowing "SAM!" at the top of his voice, but the kid had done the only wise thing and disappeared.

His father just stood there for a moment, cold wind drifting into the house, before he whirled around on his heel and disappeared into his study, shoving the door shut behind him. Dean could hear his heavy footsteps as he paced, from one wall to the other and then back again, sometimes halted by a short silence before they took up again. And so maybe he winced a little bit at what sounded like a book being thrown across the room. Then the house was swallowed by silence, dead, empty, thick silence that pressed down heavily and made swallowing difficult

"Oh, this is just perfect," Dean announced to the empty plates sitting expectantly on the table. Couldn't say he was really hungry anymore.

He ducked almost instinctively when the door to the study opened and his father reappeared, sitting down on the chair he had vacated earlier without a word, without even looking at him. Dean sat quietly and waited for the explosion.

It didn't come.

After an eternity of silence, he chanced a glance at him out of the corner of his eyes, but his Dad didn't really look angry. Instead, he had that creepy "I know what my prey is thinking" predatory half-smile on his face, but that couldn't be right, could it?

"Dude, he's lost his mind."

His father shook his head slowly, scratching at the stubble on his chin.

"I wouldn't be so sure."

Dean turned his head to stare at him slowly. Okay, so maybe _he_ had gone insane, too.

"How come, when I go all defiant and upset on your ass, you're never this understanding?"

"Because, when you go all defiant and upset on me," his father quoted his own words back to him with an amused look in his eyes, "you don't have anything to hide."

As Dean opened his mouth to object, he cut him off, with a real smile this time.

"Or if you're hiding something, it's got something to do with girls, and for some reason I don't think that's what this is about."

Dean was torn between grinning and looking – in his father's words – as worried as a mother hen, and finally settled for a worried grin that probably failed at both.

"So what makes you think he's hiding something?"

His father smiled and Dean's hope that he wouldn't turn this into a lesson was harshly let down.

"You tell me, Dean."

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest.

"Was there anything in your brother's behavior that seemed unusual to you?"

Dean scoffed.

"What, aside from walking out on you and telling you to do anatomically impossible things?"

Still, his father smiled, in a way that made Dean want to shake his head at him. Who was this guy and what had he done with his father?

"Next time I have a fit of teenage rebellion and you're about to tan my hide, I'm going to remind you of this moment."

"I'm actually rather positive this isn't teenage rebellion. Or not entirely," his father added at the look on Dean's face.

"You still haven't answered my question, though."

Resigning himself to the utter weirdness of the situation, Dean replayed the afternoon in his head. There was Sam heading upstairs as quickly as possible. Sam locking himself in the bathroom. Sam refusing to sit down and – _face_ them.

"He refused to look at us," he whispered as several cogs clicked into place simultaneously.

His father nodded his approval.

"During his entire conversation with me, he never allowed us to see the left side of his face, keeping in profile the entire time. So…?" he prompted with an encouraging nod.

"So we know there's something wrong with that side of his face?"

God, sometimes his Dad was so good it was downright creepy.

His father nodded, the smile slowly melting from his face.

"Now we just have to find him."

Knowing from the tone of his voice that the "just" was pure irony, Dean fingered for his cutlery while his father sighed, rubbing first the bridge of his nose, then his whole face. He reached for his fork when his father went on to massaging his neck and twirled it in his fingers, wishing he were able to block him out of his peripheral vision as he stared at the table. He forced himself to concentrate fully on balancing the fork on its tip, but it neither worked nor distracted him.

"I think I know where he went," he said quietly, unable to look at his father's quietly raised eyebrows.

It took all his willpower to return the fork to its place and keep his hands away from it.

"There's a small wooden dock by the lake about fifteen minutes from here. I've seen him wander off in that direction several times."

He sighed as a deep furrow appeared on his father's forehead. He knew he hated it when one of them went off alone – and especially if Dean let Sammy go off alone – but could he really blame Sam for wanting to be on his own every once in a while? Especially now Sam didn't even have solitude in his own bedroom anymore, and _nobody_ needed peace and quiet as much as Sam did.

When he remained silent, his father finally nodded. Rising from his seat, he placed the lid over the pot and headed to his study.

"All right. Go talk to him."

Frowning hard, Dean stared at his retreating back.

"Dad?" he asked softly.

His father turned, slowly, with something in his eyes that screamed _"Don't look at me like that!"_ at Dean.

He blinked quickly, desperately hoping it would disappear if he just closed his eyes, and it did. As he refocused on his father, there was nothing on his face but cold reason.

"You know where the place is. I don't."

He raised his eyebrows expectantly as Dean still didn't move.

"So go."

A little softer, he added.

"Go take care of Sammy."

He made to leave yet turned back to face him as if pulled by invisible strings.

"Besides, I don't think he wants to talk to me at the moment."

Dean felt a hot wave of uncomfortable wash around him. Leave it to Dad to bring feelings into this – Sammy's specialty – the minute Sam was out the door. Forcing a smile, he nodded his best soldier nod and fled.

* * *

Trudging along the rocky path, Dean jammed his hands into his pockets. It was chilly out, a cold breeze rubbing his skin raw. Not exactly the day _he_ would pick for an outing to the lake. 

_Damn it, Sasquatch_, he thought with a sigh.

He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he had brought something warmer to wear as he turned up the collar of his thin jacket against the cold air.

When Dad and Sam got along, it made Dean feel nice, too. Not in a cheesy chick-flick kind of way, but quietly nice. Like sitting on the porch with his Dad when they weren't hunting anything for a change, with Sammy still asleep, watching the sunrise just because he _could_. Or like teaching Sammy to skip pebbles and teasing him when it wouldn't work, wrestling with him and finally just laying still, a mess of tangled arms and legs and smiles on both their faces. But it was hard to remember what that felt like when the two of them were hollering at each other at the top of their voices, and usually because of something so stupid that Dean wanted to tear his hair out or start running and never stop or burst into tears to let them know that they weren't just hurting each other, they were also hurting Dean.

But Dean Winchester didn't burst into tears. What was he, a chick? He was sixteen, after all.

His fingers trailing to his cheek, he ran them over the scabs with a sigh.

And here he was, picking up the pieces again.

A small trail led him through several crooked trees attempting to survive at the edge of the lake, battered and bowed like old women. Hidden from view behind them was the small dock and – Dean sent a quick thanks whatever deity there was or wasn't – the hunched up figure on it.

He plopped down heavily next to Sam whose right eye flickered to him briefly, but he didn't turn his head.

"Can you not do that, please?" Dean snapped, crossing his legs, but he wasn't quite able to keep the relief out of his voice.

"Do what?"

Sam's voice was infuriatingly calm and even.

"I don't know," Dean shot back, "Taking off like that? Saying "Fuck you" to Dad? What are you, suicidal?"

He took a deep breath. Okay, calm Sammy down, not strangle him.

"Hey, I get that you're angry, but getting yourself killed is not the way, trust me."

Sammy gestured across the open water.

"Yeah, well, maybe it beats living. Because, seriously? Living kinda sucks right now."

Dean could feel his own Winchester temper rising now as well, his voice adopting a dangerously controlled tone.

"Dude, if this is about moving…"

He fell silent, realizing he didn't have a clue what to say. What then? Then Dean was going to be angry with him because it wasn't like Sam had every right to be upset about being forced to move every four months or so, it wasn't like he had the right to want a normal childhood or a normal family and a brother who could actually take care of him?

He sighed, staring at his sneakers as if they knew the answer.

It was Sam who finally spoke.

"Did you notice that this lake actually looks like tar?"

Eyes widening slightly, Dean followed his gaze and had to admit he was right. The water wasn't clear or blue or even brown, but rather appeared to be some sort of oily, dark liquid. A few rays of sunlight broke through the cloud cover as they sat in silence, reflecting on the water, but they didn't make the scene any less surreal. Quite the opposite, with the warm normality of the sunlight the lake seemed even more alien, like it shouldn't be there at all.

Dean shivered despite the warming rays.

"Dude, why do you come here? It's creepy."

"Yeah, and being in the house is quality time straight from hell."

Dean bit back a humorless chuckle.

"You're telling me."

Rubbing his hand over his eyes, he sighed deeply.

"But don't you think maybe you have something to do with that?"

"Moving sucks."

Dean snorted as he rubbed his hands together to keep them from turning into icicles.

"No shit."

It took him a moment to process Sammy's wide open eyes and mouth.

"You don't like moving either?"

Dean's brows furrowed as if of their own accord. Maybe Sam really was losing it. Weren't there dozens of brilliant minds who did all kinds of neat stuff but ended up completely bonkers?

"_No_," he said sharply, a little sharper than intended, "why would I like moving?"

To his surprise, Sam scooted a little closer.

"I just thought maybe you didn't mind so much."

Dean shook his head.

"No, I don't like it."

Except that Sam disliked it because of the starting from scratch and those things. Dean disliked it because of the tears and glares and stony silences.

"Why don't you tell Dad, then?" Sam urged, excitement growing in his voice.

Dean poked his index finger into a small hole at the knee of his jeans; it was new.

"Yeah?" he asked quietly, "And then what?"

He scoffed.

"We're going to move anyway, and we're going to keep doing it 'till Dad finds what we're looking for. We really don't have any say in the matter."

Sammy kicked at the planks underneath his feet angrily.

"But if we told him together…"

"Then what?" Dean cut him off sharply, suddenly feeling exhausted and old. "Then Dad's going to say; 'Oh, you're right, boys, my obsession with all things supernatural really is unhealthy, I guess we better settle down then and forget it ever happened'!?"

The last words had come out a lot angrier and louder than he had intended and they sat in silence for a moment, staring out over the black water.

Suddenly, Dean smiled.

"Nice going there, Dude. Your diversions are getting better, you really had me distracted for a moment."

A smirk made its way across his face as he saw Sammy flinch, knowing he had hit bull's-eye.

"Show me your face."

"No."

Dean pulled the Dad card and hated himself for it.

"Sam, I'm not asking, I'm telling."

He held his breath, but apparently Sam's respect for Dad wasn't all gone just yet.

Heaving a deep breath, he turned his head in Dean's direction. His right eye glared his fiercest stare at his brother, but Dean wasn't paying attention to that.

His entire focus was on the left side of Sam's face. A large, purple bruise graced the area around his swollen-shut eye with a small cut just left of it. The swelling had bloated his face oddly, making it look not like Sammy's at all but rather like something they hunted.

"Son of a…" Dean whispered, awed. Even on his worst day, he had never ended up looking like this. And he was the Master Of Disaster, after all.

He raised his hand to touch the bruise but stopped as Sam flinched away from him, leaving his fingers suspended in mid-air.

"Damn, Sammy, please tell me that whoever did this, you busted their skull open."

Sam, his jaw tightening into a hard line, shook his head.

Dean could hardly believe it.

"Why the hell not?"

Sam's temper suddenly flared up, or maybe the anger had been there all along and was only now starting to surface.

"Because they were in tenth grade, Dean, and there were four of them. What the hell did you expect me to do?"

Dean had dealt with Sam's emotions long enough to know that while his brother might be yelling at him, his fury was actually directed at someone else. He just shook his head, tilting Sam's face into the light.

"Dude, you have to tell Dad about this," he said quietly, still awed by the shade of deep purple.

As if he had said a magic word, Sammy seemed to sag, his shoulders slumping forward as if someone had let the air out of his body.

"Do we have to?" he asked, his face scrunched up in utter misery.

Dean just shook his head at the sight of those dreaded puppy eyes.

"Dude, there is _no_ way we could keep this from him, even if I wanted to."

With a sigh, Sam turned away from him, placing a hand on the good side of his face.

They sat in silence for a moment, Dean staring at Sam and Sam pretending not to notice. Dean sighed. Sammy was always sulking about something, but it had been a while since he had actually been _this_ upset. It was high time for some words of wisdom. He just hoped that he wouldn't have to say any of that touchy-feely crap about silver linings and all that Sam loved almost as much as Dean hated it.

Sneaking a glance at his fingernails, slowly but steadily turning blue, he shook his head.

He didn't feel particularly deep or wise right now. He just wanted to get Sammy and himself out of the cold and go home. Maybe they could all share a manly hug and then go out to get some burgers and fries. Maybe hunt the bastards who'd done this as a fun family activity afterwards.

He rose with a groan, wincing as his legs, previously protected by his own body, were exposed to the icy wind.

"Come on, kiddo, let's go."

He hoisted Sam up by his arms and suddenly found himself placing a hand at the base of his brother's neck, like his father did with him when he was about to tell Dean he'd done well on a hunt.

"Look on the bright side: He can't do more than kill you."


	6. Dean III

Well, that was a bitch to write. Once I'm finished with this, I'm officially retiring to writing nothing except cute and fluffy Sam&John pieces. Seriously.

Yeah right. :) But I did appreciate each and every one of the reviews and alerts. **I will not be updating the next two weeks**, but I'd still love to find out what you thought. Feedback makes it all worth my while. :D

Oh yeah - who besides me thinks they really upped the snark in season 3? If they keep this up, I think I'm going to have to find the writers and hug them. :)**

* * *

**

**Dean III**

**

* * *

**

The silence in the kitchen was heavy and stifling and Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Sammy's jaw was defiantly pushed forward and his good eye never left his father's face as the man gingerly placed a steak that was tomorrow's dinner on his face. Dean could see him suppress a flinch and sighed. His father's face was blank in a way that it only ever was when emotions were involved.

"Who did this?" he asked softly, ignoring the anger that flared up in Sammy's eyes at the words.

But his brother stayed silent, as if challenging his father. And it didn't take a genius to know _that_ wasn't a good idea. Dean fidgeted again, the silence more uncomfortable than any words spoken in anger could ever be, yet Sam and Dad were still at it, eyes locked, staring each other down.

"Some thugs from high school," Dean finally burst out, unable to stand the feeling of impending doom any longer.

His father's voice was quiet.

"Thank you, Dean, but I wasn't talking to you."

Dean sank his teeth into his lower lip, wishing that sometimes, _sometimes_, his father wouldn't be able to make him feel like a kid.

At least he wasn't the only one his Dad could set firmly in his place with nothing more than a look. Sammy glared daggers at him, but Dean could actually see his façade begin to crack, then crumble, the expression on his face changing from defiant to miserable rapidly. Finally, he bowed his head, mumbling something that could possibly be interpreted as "high school thugs".

His dad sighed his "Whatever am I going to do with you boys?"- sigh and Dean felt a hot wave of shame flood him, even though he technically hadn't done anything. He hadn't. In fact, he'd done so utterly nothing that Sammy now had an eye the size of a football and his dad had-

He blanched as his eyes snapped to the clock.

"Dad, your meeting-"

His father raised a hand to silence him, eyes never leaving Sammy whose eyes widened in surprise as if to say "_What meeting?"_

"I cancelled it."

Dean nearly jumped out of his chair.

"But you can't-"

"Don't tell me what I can or can't do," his father admonished him quietly.

Dean sank back, falling silent again. It was like talking to walls with these two.

The man turned his attention back to Sammy, or rather, Sammy's hair because the kid was still refusing to look at either of them.

"Sam," he said, quietly capturing his attention, "You need to tell me everything."

What little could be seen of Sam's lower lip trembled as he nodded.

"Look at me," his father commanded and his brother raised his head, but his eyes were still fixed on the table.

"Do you know them?"

Sam's eyes danced like a caged animal's. Slowly, he shook his head.

"One of them is called Marcus."

His father nodded, pulling up a chair to sit down across from his younger son.

"Okay, Sam. I want you to tell me anything you remember about these boys. Anything at all."

Sammy nodded, his jaws clenching painfully as he dredged up the memory.

Dean couldn't help but marvel at how perfectly their Dad had drilled the skill of later recalling details they had barely even noticed in the situation itself into their brains as Sammy hesitantly began to speak.

"Mar-, Marcus is the tallest of the four. He wears a brown leather jacket and keeps to the right of the group. The shortest has a crew cut and a goatee and a scar just above the collar line. The third, he's blond and has necklace with a C on it. And the leader," he swallowed heavily, "he has a big nose."

Dean couldn't help but snicker at that, if only to break the tension. Their father rewarded him with a warning look but Sam actually seemed relieved, a small smile fighting its way onto his face.

"He's left-handed. And he wears a ring…"

He trailed off as he lifted his hand to gingerly finger the cut just left of his eye.

Dean's laughter evaporated as quickly as it had come.

His father sighed deeply as he reached out to tousle Sammy's hair. The kid scowled but didn't pull away – that was something, at least.

"I think we should go to bed early today, boys," he said, "We're all tired and you have school tomorrow."

Neither of them replied. Dean watched Sammy, gnawing at his lower lip. There was no way their Dad would offer to let Sam stay home, even after a beating like that one. Sammy would have to swallow his pride and ask and for a moment, the kid hesitated, a tentative "Dad?" already on his lips. But then his face hardened and he gave a curt nod before he headed to the bathroom. Dean watched him go, unable to shake off the dreadful feeling that they hadn't heard the end of this one yet.

* * *

When Dean woke, Sammy wasn't there. Or maybe he woke _because_ Sammy wasn't there, he didn't know the difference anymore. He could tell as soon as he snapped his eyes open to find that the mattress above him wasn't sagging dangerously. If his kid brother had been where he was supposed to, it would have, because that's what ancient musty mattresses did. Dean knew that, he knew Sam's weight had nothing to do with it, but it hadn't stopped him from teasing his chubby ass about it. (What finally did stop him was having _America: Our Great Country's History_ hit him in the shoulder, because that friggin' _hurt_.) 

Glancing at the alarm clock on the ground, he figured it was nearly time to get up anyway and rolled off the bed. He narrowly avoided stepping into his Bowie knife and nearly tripped over his guitar, but he made it into the hallway in one piece, cocking his head to listen. He could hear Sam's bitchy voice from downstairs – apparently, he was speaking to Dad again – and breathed a sigh of relief.

Idiot kid brother okay? Check.

He could hear his father now and he didn't exactly sound pleased, but nature's call was louder than theirs at the moment. Safe enough to leave them for now.

A shower and a quick round with his toothbrush later, he was just about presentable to the world – and it was about time, too. The voices downstairs had picked up on volume, carrying through the house easily and leading him right to the study. They were both already dressed, or maybe still; Dean wouldn't put an all-nighter past their Dad.

"I can't believe you're this unfair!" Sam snapped, sounding dangerously close to tears.

Dad was not impressed.

"And you've written the book on fairness, have you, Sam?"

"Guys…" Dean tried, but a fat lot of good that did – he now found himself on the receiving end of two Winchester death glares.

"Dean, you stay out of this," he was ordered before Dad snapped his fingers sharply, returning Sam's attention back to himself.

"Would you care to let me in on why I am unfair, Sam?"

Something was off. Really, really off. Dad was entirely too calm for a sane person, and insane Dad… well, let's not go there.

Sam, of course, was oblivious.

"You never let me do _anything_," he hissed, "I can't go to soccer, I can't participate in the science project, I can't even go to the Halloween sleepover because we're always hunting, and when we're not hunting, we're researching, and when we're not researching, we're throwing knives at trees or making bullets or learning exorcisms by heart, and when we're not doing that, we're ASLEEP!"

Okay, it was official: Sammy wanted to die.

Dad crossed his arms in front of his chest, his jaw tightening in the same way Sammy's always did.

"Well, why don't you tell me what you want to do, since it seems so much more important than surviving?"

There was an edge to his voice that would have sent Dean running screaming for the hills (you know, if Dean screamed), but Sammy, his self-preservation instinct having gotten lost along the way years ago, hardly even seemed to notice.

He frowned slightly, not quite sure what to make of the offer – not that Dean could blame him – before launching into a lengthy list of Things Everyone Else Gets To Do But I Don't. He was picking up speed as he went, sounding suspiciously as though he'd ranted this in his head several times already, rambling for a bit before Dad cut him off.

"So, basically, you want me to let you do everything everyone else does, yeah?"

The kid, taken aback by the suddenly almost civil tone, nodded, staying silent.

His father let out an annoyed sigh.

"Well, you're not exactly great about doing what I want you to yourself, are you?"

He silenced Sam's already expected protest with a raised hand.

"You show me I can trust you, and I'll start trusting you. Right now you're not exactly doing a stellar job for yourself."

He fixed Sam with a hard look, and then Dean, probably just for good measure.

"As for all the other stuff, you know _exactly_ why you can't do them. We've gone over this a million times. You're a smart kid, you'd remember if you just bothered to think for a minute."

He rolled his eyes as Sammy opened his mouth, hurt written all over his face.

"Yes, I'm the Evilest Dad On The Planet, I know."

He crossed his arms again, arms the size of small tree trunks, and gave another glare.

"What I don't know is how me not watching out for your precious feelings has anything to do with you not being able to stand up for yourself."

Dean couldn't help it, he actually cringed at the words. Sammy's lower lip, quivering slightly, betrayed his brother's feelings, but he bit down on it, hard.

Their father stared at him, stared him down. Dean could tell he was forcing himself to calm down, could see him take a steady breath. He knew they both saw the exact moment when Sam finally broke.

He dropped his eyes, allowing his bangs to fall into them as he bowed his head, ever so slightly. Dad gave the tiniest nod, almost invisible, Dean wasn't even sure he himself knew he was doing it. But he knew what it meant – Dad was willing to let it go, to sweep it all under the rug.

"So, we clear, son?"

"Fine," Sam snapped, predictably ruffling their Dad's feathers again.

"What was that, son?" he demanded, his voice dropping dangerously.

The kid pushed his chin upwards.

"Yes, sir," he corrected himself icily.

They glared at each other for a moment, eyes dark with anger, before Dad raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Get to school," he commanded, his voice curt.

Dean barely managed to get out of the way as Sammy streaked past him, his good eye red-rimmed but his face dry.

* * *

By the time Dean had made it to the front door, his brother was long gone. The witnessed argument had left him in a rather foul mood and he spent most of the morning tapping his fingernails on his desk and trying to think up a plan. Some course of action. It just figured that with all the books these people made him read, not one of them featured anything helpful when it came to topics like How To Save Your Baby Brother. 

But as he trudged along the street, heading for Sammy's school, he at least had an idea. He would wait in front of Sammy's school until he spotted the bastards who had dared to do this to his kid brother. Or until he spotted his kid brother who could then point the bastards out to him. And then there would be hell to pay. (Not as much as he wanted, though – they couldn't afford to get sued.)

He liked it, really. Short and to the point. The only catch was preventing Dad from ever, _ever_ finding out, because heading Sammy off after school meant skipping his last lesson, and skipping school meant drawing needless attention and that meant trouble all around.

But hey, it was for a good cause, he figured with a smirk as he stared up at the bleak building.

"Don't tell me your immature bullshit got you kicked back to middle school."

Looking around for the owner of the voice that had startled him out of his musings, Dean smiled.

"Hey Kathy."

The girl flipped her dark ponytail over her shoulder with a look of irritation before she jammed her hands into her pockets to protect them from the stinging wind.

"So, skipping Dr. Brown's fascinating lecture on ancient history, are we?"

"Seems like I'm not the only one. You're here, too," he reminded her.

Kathy bared her teeth at him in a humorless grin.

"I had a note from my mother. It kinda helped."

Dean snorted.

"Yeah, I guess it would."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Your mother doesn't know about your little field trip, I take it?"

"I doubt it."

Dean willed the hitch in his voice to go away.

"She's dead."

A surprisingly gentle look crossed her face – he would have to remember the "poor orphan"-trick for later.

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding surprisingly like she meant it.

"It's okay," he shrugged her off, "It was a long time ago."

Maybe later, when thinking about Mom didn't dredge up so many bad memories.

Kathy seemed to sense awkwardness; she gestured at the building.

"So, why exactly are you skipping school? You know, since it doesn't seem to be on a higher authority."

"My brother," he explained, "he ran into a bit of a snag at school."

"Is he okay?" she asked, her voice adopting a worried tone.

"Oh yeah, he's cool," he placated her, "Not as cool as I am, though."

He wasn't sure if her snort was a good snort or a bad snort, but on second thought, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

"So, what's your story?"

She groaned as a response.

"Oh, ugh. My siblings have a doctor's appointment. And I have to drive them."

"And you don't want that?" Dean asked at the dislike visible on her face.

"I'm not crazy about it, no. I mean, they're my siblings. Annoying like you wouldn't believe."

Dean grinned, adjusting the strap of his backpack for what seemed like the 100th time.

"Hey, I've got a twelve-year-old brother. When it comes to annoying, I believe just about anything."

"Well, I've got a thirteen-year-old brother _and_ a thirteen-year-old sister," Kathy trumped, "Beat that."

Dean grimaced.

"Ouch."

She smiled and shrugged as if she hadn't just gone all annoyed older sister on him.

"I survive. What grade is your brother in, sixth?"

"Seventh," Dean corrected with a small smile.

The girl glanced at her watch, a small frown forming in her face.

"Shouldn't he be out by now, then?"

He shrugged. She pushed the strap of her bag more firmly onto her shoulder and slid her hands into her pockets again.

"I should get going, though – the brats are probably already waiting for me. I'll see you around."

"It's a date," Dean called after her, grinning as she muttered "Idiot" with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

He stared after her bouncing ponytail for a moment, humming a Metallica tune recognizable only to himself as he set out to search for Sam.

* * *


	7. John I

I come bearing fics:) Spent two weeks basically writing in every spare minute and no, I didn't write anything that wasn't SN fanfiction. Produced a bunch of stuff that will crop up in the next few days or already has. Went to check out Stanford which is probably the most gorgeous campus I've ever been to. And this guy Sam gave me his number. Sadly, he wasn't my type. :( ;)

So, the last act of **Sun's Rays** has begun. It's angst, shmoop and a little action and I really want to find out what you think. So here's the deal. Each and every one of you will recieve my eternal adoration for at least a day ;) if we all manage the following: I would really really really like ten reviews over the course of the next three chapters. (Yes, that number makes sense, if only to me.) That's only 3.333 (for all enternity) reviews per chapter, and that's well manageable. Call it my early Christmas present, okay?

(huggles you all)

**

* * *

**

**John I**

**

* * *

**

Sometimes, John Winchester seriously doubted inventing the phone had been a good idea. He glanced up from the notes a contact had given to him as the insistent ringing simply would not stop, even after John gave the machine his most evil glare.

As the shrill sound began to shatter his eardrums for the fourth time, he finally gave in and stalked over, barking an irritable "Yes?" into the receiver.

"Dad?" His older son sounded breathless. Almost scared, but this was Dean they were talking about.

"Dean? What is it?"

"Sam's skipping school."

And just like that, his heart stopped. Something cold and painful crept along his intestines, turning them to ice. God, something was wrong. Sam didn't skip school. He simply didn't. To say he would was like asking Dean if he thought selling the Impala for scrap metal was a good idea.

John lost precious seconds just staring at nothing, mouth slightly open in disbelief, before the hunter in him took over.

"How long has he been missing?" he asked, his voice adopting the steely business tone he used whenever he needed solid facts almost automatically.

Dean took a deep breath.

"Well, I asked and they said he never even showed up this morning. Which means he's got a head start of like, six hours."

John swore softly.

"Where are you?"

"Sammy's school."

Dean's voice sounded so small and scared, like it wasn't him but Sam who was calling. John sincerely hoped – no, he _knew_ – that the phone line was simply bad.

"Don't move," he ordered, "I'll be there in five."

* * *

John rarely wanted to scream. To kill someone or something, sure. To take a gun to his head, yeah, sometimes. Occasionally, he even wanted to cry, even though he rarely did. But wanting to just start screaming in frustration was rare for him. 

Maybe that was why he wanted to so badly.

With his boys, the shock was usually sudden and harsh – a broken leg, a concussion, seeing something standing over them about to rip their throats out. That was something tangible, something he could deal with. He hated sitting in the corridor of a hospital with his head in his hands, waiting for a doctor to tell him what bone Sam had broken this time. But that was nothing, _nothing_ compared to the agony of not even knowing where his son was. He saw him everywhere; every time he turned a corner or peered through a shop window, he caught sight of a mop of black hair or a glimpse of his jacket. But every time he screeched to a halt, he stared at the startled face of some other boy.

They'd checked the obvious places first, even followed the path along the edge of the lake for what seemed like an eternity, but nothing. No Sam sitting somewhere, brooding all by his lonesome. No Sam at the library, no Sam at the house. No one had seen him, hell, no one even seemed to have a clue who they were talking about. In a town were people's hobbies probably mainly featured spying on and gabbing about the neighbors, no one had seen a small, dark-haired kid disappear.

Finally, trailing through town, scrutinizing everyone they passed was all they _could_ do. Every half hour or so, John would suddenly take a sharp U-turn and head home, sending Dean in to check if Sammy was back; every time he returned empty-handed, the urge to smash something grew harder to resist.

Still, his mind refused to acknowledge the possibility. He didn't think about what would happen, didn't allow himself to go down that road, but as dusk began to settle, the sinking feeling in his stomach became just about impossible to ignore.

He forced himself to steer the car to the side and turn to look into the red-rimmed eyes of his older son.

"Dean," he said softly.

Dean shook his head.

John pinched the bridge of his nose to ease a starting head ache. He needed to think rationally about this. He needed to regain control.

"Damn it!" he hissed, slamming his fist down on the steering wheel.

His son flinched, ducking his head, but somehow it was impossible to open his mouth and apologize.

He took a deep, forced breath instead.

"Dean, we have to go home."

"No," Dean whispered, shaking his head again.

"Dean, we can't just keep driving. We're not helping anyone this way."

Dean said nothing, just hung his head and John droned out everything in his head except rationality as he turned the car around.

* * *

Dean's pacing was almost as painful to watch as the hands of the clock, ticking the seconds away gently. Couch to kitchen table, table to window, along the wall to the closet and back to the couch. John found himself watching every rise and fall of the threadbare, worn-out sneakers, following them from wood to carpet to wood again. He reminded himself to stop at Goodwill sometime in the future, since Dean's feet seemed to be taking in epic proportions. His shoes were so small they had to be painful, even John could see that. 

Of course Dean, being Dean, never said a word.

John began to massage his temples just as Dean started his billionth round.

"Would you stop, please?" he snapped.

It was out before he could stop himself and a lot harsher than he intended, but at least it achieved the desired result. Dean froze immediately, arms dropping to his sides. He turned slowly to face the couch and – God Damn it, the kid was about to cry.

"Don't worry, we'll get him back," he found himself promising, as if he wasn't in control of his own body – as if the words actually meant anything.

"But then why aren't we doing anything?" his son shot back, anger replacing the tears in his eyes.

"Because we _can't_."

The irritation in his voice and Dean's immediate change in attitude as the boy ducked his head, subdued, were fully intended this time.

John leaned forward, giving him a hard look.

"We might be good at what we do, Dean, but Sam has grown up around us. He knows exactly how we think and what we look for."

He sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose to ease his starting headache.

"As much as I hate to admit it, if he doesn't want to be found by us, there's really not a lot we can do about it."

Dean narrowed his eyes at him in a defiant frown that really looked a lot like one of Sammy's glares.

"So we're just gonna sit here and wait for all eternity? What if he never comes back?"

"Don't say that!" John barked, because that thought made heart dance and his stomach oddly light, like that moment on a roller coaster right before you took the plunge.

Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, shutting out the helplessness on Dean's face that looked so very much like he felt, he started to count. At five, he opened them again, wrestling the terrified father out of the way to make room for the hunter.

If something he hunted broke pattern… Broke it so utterly, so completely, going against things it enjoyed in order to avoid something else. Fear, usually. But fear didn't make any sense. He supervised every twitch of a finger his sons made during training, he knew very well what they were capable of. True, he never took them with him if he even so much as suspected a situation might escalate – a lesson learned the hard way – but he was well aware of how much they could handle. And these guys were definitely within Sam's sphere of control. From the boy's description, they sounded intimidating, yes, but Sam wasn't impressed easily. (At least not by size. There was a look of awe on the kid's face every time began one of his infamous rants on Einstein, Newton and something or other Steinbeck that, he had to admit it, made John a little jealous; sometimes even had him wishing back to the time when Sammy looked like that when speaking about _him_.) It wasn't the number, either. Sam was smaller, more agile and knew very well how to wrestle free from someone's hold. It would be an easy task for him to have them charge at each other while trying to reach for him.

It couldn't really be fear. And John didn't believe in this "cry for help" crap. If one of his boys wanted his attention, he expected them to ask. Yeah, he didn't always have the time or the patience to listen, but hunting was important. They knew that. And they always had each other.

He looked up to find Dean still watching him, staring at him like he was drowning and John was holding a life-saver.

"We'll get him back," he promised again, "We'll find him and we'll figure this out."

"But…"

The fear in Dean's eyes grew harder to ignore; they had to be getting closer to the boy's deepest worry.

"But what if he doesn't want to come back?"

A hand was raised as Dean began to chew on his nails furiously, something he hadn't done in ages.

"What if he doesn't like us anymore and doesn't want our help?"

John stopped himself from snapping at the boy that he was being ridiculous. Dean's entire purpose was keeping Sammy safe and happy and for him to think Sam didn't want him anymore…

He sighed, pressing his fingertips tightly together.

"Dean, can you look me in the eye and honestly tell me that Sam doesn't want us to pop a rabbit out of the hat and make everything all right?"

Dean couldn't. From the way he stared at the tips of his shoes, he couldn't even meet his stare. But to John's distaste, he wasn't quite ready to let the matter go, either.

"But if he really were to, you know," he gestured awkwardly, "where would he go? Bobby's?"

John shook his head.

"Bobby would contact us the second he walked in the door. And then tie him to a chair until we get there. He knows that."

Dean nodded, apparently quite happy with that idea.

"Jim Murphy would do the same and probably give him a lecture on top. He doesn't know Caleb or Joshua well enough to try them and I doubt he has a way to contact anyone else."

He was almost relieved when Dean finally threw himself down on the sofa as well.

"What about Uncle What's-his-name down in Kansas?"

John snorted.

"To be honest, I don't think Sammy even remembers he exists. It's not exactly like we parted on the best of terms."

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so glad to see a smile tugging at the corners of his son's mouth.

"Friends?" the boy asked on, but he seemed to be a lot calmer now.

"Parents would get suspicious. Wouldn't work."

Dean nodded, then sighed, running his hand through his shorn head.

"And we really can't do anything?"

John shrugged half-heartedly.

"Not much. If he's not back by morning, I'm calling the police."

Dean sobered up immediately and John knew he was thinking the same thing he was.

Involving the police was always risky for Winchesters. A weapon arsenal in the trunk of the car, several close calls with uniformed officers in the past and where exactly did those bruises on his son's body come from, again?

"Sorry," his boy muttered, as sincere as he ever got with apologies. He leaned back slightly, eyes still trained on John.

"What are you going to do" – There was a tiny pause – "_when_ he gets back?"

John sighed, massaging his temples again.

"I don't know."

A crease built up slowly between his son's eyebrows.

"You are going to do something, though, right?"

"I don't know," he repeated, a hard edge to his voice. And the truth was, he really didn't. He was in uncharted territory and that didn't happen to him very often.

Dean's voice was trembling as he balled his hands into fists.

"So you're just going to let him get away with this shit? When I want to go out, you get all disappointed in me, but he runs off and you're just going to let him get away with it?"

His voice had gradually risen; the last few words were almost shouted as his voice cracked

John could feel his own temper start to rise, but releasing tension by lashing out at Dean wasn't going to help either of them. Slipping his mind into hunter mode again, something that so rarely worked when he was confronted with his sons, he forced himself to think logically. He couldn't do anything. He _couldn't_. Pushing the voice that screamed _"I don't care! He's my _son_!"_ far into the back of his mind, he put his head in his hands, squeezing tightly as if wanting to crack his skull.

"Dean," he pressed out, "I know you're upset, but don't you _dare_ speak to me like that. You are not going to start questioning my judgement, is that clear?"

He took in Dean's stubborn set of jaw and sighed.

"I mean it, Dean. I get enough of that from Sam and I can't deal with two people constantly telling me "no". I need you on my side. Okay?"

The boy nodded reluctantly.

"Good. Now, tell me one single punishment that would not make the situation worse and I will dish it out happily."

Dean said nothing, just stared at his hands as if wondering what purpose they had.

"It just seems like you don't even care," he finally heard him mumble in that accusing Sam-voice that always managed to push John's buttons.

"_Dean!"_ he hissed, and no matter how upset his son was, this was a tone he would never ignore.

He sighed unhappily, rubbing at his tired eyes with his hands.

"Look – I'm sorry, Dad. Okay? I'm just worried. I'll be fine once he gets home"

Something crossed his face suddenly, something deeper, darker.

"He _will_ get home, right?"

There was a sickly shade of green around his mouth, but John refused to dwell on his words.

Laying one arm around the boy's shoulders, he pulled him close against his shoulder.

"He'll be fine, Dean," he whispered, almost chanting it insistently under his breath. "You'll see. He'll be fine. He'll be home."

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Dean allowed the touch and John patted his shoulder gently, hoping, praying he was right.

* * *


	8. John II

**Important service announcement:** The vampire has now, thanks to some online magic and the awesome help of **camlann** without whom it wouldn't have worked half as well, evolved into a woodwose. There've been some minor changes to previous chapters which don't actually matter too much, but I would advise to take a look at the Sam/Dean dialogue in chapter 2 for an introduction of the thing.

The reviews are coming great, thank you so much! - And as for this chapter... Complete sap.**

* * *

**

John II

* * *

John Winchester sat in absolute darkness. The black landscape of the living room stretched out around him and the sofa he sat on. He didn't move, did nothing to entertain himself. He simply sat, blending in with his surroundings, _becoming_ his surroundings. If he listened carefully, he could hear Dean's quiet breathing from upstairs. His oldest hadn't wanted to go to bed but hadn't dared to disobey a direct order. So to bed he'd gone, leaving the door to his room deliberately wide open, almost daring him to object, but John hadn't commented on it.

He hadn't the slightest inkling as to what time it was as he heard the first telltale sound of the prodigal son's return. A slight creak of the floorboards of the porch that might just as well have been the wind in an old tree. A long pause to scatter all suspicions someone woken by the sound might have. A muffled metallic jingle as the key was eased into the lock; the sound of the doorknob almost reduced to nothing by using both hands. Only a finger to guide the door as far as it would open on its own, preventing the betraying creak of old wood. Soft shuffling footsteps, he'd taken his shoes off. John smiled to himself. Still he sat, silently waiting until the sound was right behind him.

"Sam."

A sharp intake of breath as the boy spun around. John could almost feel the eyes coming to rest on him.

The silence that settled around them hardly betrayed that two people were in the room, still, motionless, each waiting for the other to make a move. John almost thought he could hear Sam's small heart thumping hastily.

"Sit," he said softly, but there was no doubt it was an order.

Relief flooded him at the sound of quietly shuffling feet. This would be so much easier if Sam didn't fight him every step of the way.

His eyes went wide as he felt small hands on his arms and a weight on his knees. When he had commanded Sam to sit down, he hadn't actually expected him to crawl onto his lap, and for a moment, he wasn't sure what to do. A voice in his head (John called it "Mary" sometimes) instructed him to gather the kid into his arms and just hold him for a while, but what sounded so easy was pretty damn near impossible in real life. His limbs didn't seem to obey him anymore, just lay limply at his side. And though he had initiated the contact, his youngest sat on his legs rigid and tense even as John carefully placed one hand on his back. The man sighed, suddenly wishing - contrary to what he had thought before - that Dean were here with him. He was much better at handling things… Handling Sam.

He breathed a silent sigh as he felt his boy relax ever so slightly, shoulders sinking gently. Somehow, John managed to get his other arm to move as well, resting it on his son's thigh, and pretended not to notice that even in the dark, the boy was purposefully not looking his way.

"Sam, what's going on here?"

"I don't know what you mean," the boy lied through gritted teeth.

John decided to humor him, wondering why this type of thing always had to be so hard.

"I mean," he explained, willing a patient tone into his voice, "why are you letting a bunch of kids – high school kids, I know, but still kids – beat you up like that? I've seen you kick in the teeth of a ghoul when you were ten. You're more than capable of dealing with a few school-yard bullies."

Actually, that particular incident still made John shudder.

John did the dirty work. That was the one rule he lived by, and he knew that if all else failed, he could still rely on that. His boys helped with the surveillance and the research and even held salt and accelerant ready, but it was John who did the killing. Someday all that could change, and with Dean, that day could even be soon. But until that day they hunted together, John killed alone.

And yet it was that one rule that had almost gotten his baby killed.

John's great mistake had happened about two years ago, in late fall when the ground was covered by early snow and the leaves had hung from the trees frozen and dead. A ghoul had been hiding out in the desert of ice, simply waiting for John to come and end his life with hardly more effort than snapping his fingers. Dean was at his side and Sammy was far, far away from the danger, keeping watch by the car. Safe, or so he thought. He'd nailed the sucker, completely unaware of the other ghoul prowling the area, making a move on Sam before the kid had even realized it was there. But instead of letting it just get him, the panic had turned Sam into a vicious little hunter, kicking out with his feet, catching that thing square in the mouth. They were still wrestling when John arrived, Sam all teeth and claws and fighting like a little animal, and he'd be damned if that thing wasn't howling in pain when he got to it. He'd never been more proud of his baby in his entire life, but the boy's vicious snarl had dissolved straight into tears that didn't stop until they were back in the motel room and John had forced him to take a sleeping pill.

"Yeah…"

Sammy's quiet voice snapped him back to reality abruptly.

"But I shouldn't be."

John closed his eyes and counted to five. Still, Sam's words remained hanging in the air, unchanged, unaltered. He gripped the fabric of his pants at his knees.

"Please explain that to me," he said, his strained voice causing the boy to tense again. But he obeyed, the words tumbling from his mouth faster and faster as if they had needed to be said for a long time.

"I shouldn't be. I can wrestle with ghouls. I can take down a guy who's twice my size. But normal kids can't do that. They would need more than just an outstretched arm to force someone onto their face. Normal kids would take it!"

For seconds that seemed to stretch into an eternity, John Winchester was at an utter loss for words. Somehow, he resisted the urge to slam down his fist and yell "God damn it!" He licked his dry lips. What the hell do you say to the twisted logic of a kid?

He spoke slowly, choosing every word carefully.

"You're right, Sam. Some kids do take it. They let themselves be beaten and allow themselves to suffer at the will of others. But others don't. They take some self-defense lessons. They let their Dads teach them a few tricks. They practice with their brothers. And then they stand up to the guys who harass them because they're smaller or more intelligent or just there. And they don't let them hurt them anymore."

He paused as Sam drew a shuddering breath and, without another warning, broke into tears. And suddenly, pulling him into his arms didn't seem all that hard anymore. He held his baby tightly, his arms wrapped around the body that was only just beginning to lengthen, his hand in the tangled mess of hair at the back of Sammy's head.

"Okay?" he whispered softly and smiled as Sammy nodded violently, his face pressed against his shirt.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he felt more than saw his son reach up to wipe the snot from his nose with his sleeve. Other parents always seemed to have a tissue ready for occasions like these, but John never did. The sleeves suffered under his reign.

Seizing the opportunity to catch Sam's wrist with his fingers, he pushed the boy away from him and tipped his face in his direction.

"Good. Now, listen very carefully."

His tone was low and dangerous, deadly to anyone who disobeyed or chose this unfortunate moment to interrupt.

"You are _never_ taking off like that again. Do you understand me? If you're angry with me or Dean, then we can fight that out all you want, or if you want to be alone, we can find a way for that too. But you are never going to just run away – from school, too, of all places – without letting me or Dean know, without any money, without a_ weapon_, God damn it. You could be attacked or threatened or drown, and those are just the supernatural things."

He took a steady breath.

"Are we clear on this, son?"

Sam mumbled a small "Yes, sir," his voice still shaky and uneven, took a deep breath and repeated it a little louder of his own accord.

The boy really was getting the hang of things.

"And I think you owe Dean and I an apology."

Sammy nodded, letting his head drop against John's chest with what appeared to almost be a content sigh.

It had been a while since either of John's children had fallen asleep in his arms, but there was nothing unfamiliar about it. Except maybe that Sam was a tad heavier than he remembered – he really was getting a little chubby. With a sigh, muffled so as not to wake the sleeping child, John hoisted the boy into his arms, taking care that his head rested against his chest comfortably.

Sam was getting heavier quickly, his limbs stretching. Soon, he would be too big for John to carry him; he would turn fully into the adult he was fast becoming. But not yet. There was still time for John to look at his youngest and see the baby boy Mary had adored so much, to see the boy as he had seen him before that night. To see him as he was, without the tragedy tainting his vision, obscuring his memory.

He pushed open the door to the boys' bedroom silently, finding his way by the light that shone in from the hallway. Stepping around Dean's hunting knife on the carpet, John made a mental note to talk to him about that habit before he reached up to the bed, gently lifting Sammy into his bunk. Dean underneath him groaned quietly as he carefully retracted his arms from underneath his younger son's body and nodded contently as Sam didn't even stir.

Still three-quarters asleep, Dean lifted a warning finger.

"Dude, if you do that to me again…"

With a small smile, John pushed the raised arm back down to his son's chest.

"He's asleep, son," he said softly.

"The kid has nerves," Dean grumbled, resulting in a light chuckle from John before he bent down to brush a kiss on the boy's forehead.

Dean mumbled something that sounded vaguely like "Geroff" as he rolled to face the wall, wiping across his face with the back of his hand.

John's smile faltered a little as he turned to the younger child, curled into a defensive ball on the top bunk. Pulling the covers up around him, he lightly touched the top of Sam's head with his lips. Sam was too deeply asleep to move or even change the pattern of his breathing, but a small, warm smile crossed his face that John knew he was going to remember forever.

* * *

You couldn't really tell unless you looked closely. Sam's face was as dark and clouded as the sky outside, but that wasn't really anything out of the ordinary. No, it was the way his hand shook as he poured himself cereal, shook so badly he ended up with half the box in his bowl and at least another quarter scattered over the table. He sent a glance John's way, the call for help quickly suppressed as he swept the mess up with his hands.

John felt a rare wave of sympathy; there was sucking it up and there was… this. He bit back a wince as the milk carton wobbled dangerously in Sam's small grip. Knowing just about the only thing his son and he had in common was their taste in cereal, he pushed his own, already prepared bowl over to the boy who took it with a curt nod.

He looked so much like a soldier going into battle it hurt, and maybe he was.

John forced himself to look away, glancing at his watch.

"Dean!" he called, accidentally causing Sammy to jump, "Get your butt down here, it's past late!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Dean's voice called back to him as he came trampling down the stairs. John quickly snatched his cup away before his eldest could get to it. The boy scowled at him, changing course to steer for the stove and the coffeepot.

"Enough with the rush, old man. Guy needs his beauty sleep."

John tried and failed not to smile, an effect Dean always seemed to have on him.

"Call me old again and you'll be spending your nights running laps."

His hand shot out automatically, catching Sam's cup of orange juice as the kid, reaching for it, tipped it over.

"And comb your hair."

Dean gave him a fake indignant look.

"Since when do you care about looks?"

"Since you started looking like a haystack. The neighbors will think you're being neglected."

Sammy's spoon clattered to the ground noisily. The kid wasn't looking well, a good deal too pale and definitely too green around the nose.

Dean helped himself to some toast.

"Aw, Dad. Think of my self-esteem. I'm a teenager, I'm very sensitive right now. You're supposed to be gentle with me, not belittle my sense of fashion."

John gave him a look as he leaned over to retrieve Sam's cutlery.

"Just do it."

Dean's laughter followed his son up the stairs. Sam rose as well, pushing the untouched bowl away, and slid into his jacket slowly, shouldering his backpack like it weighed a ton. Knowing his boy and the amounts of books he carried around, it probably did.

"Sam," John called him back quietly.

His son turned, his face twisted in suppressed apprehension that only slightly lessened at his father's nod.

"No one can hurt you unless you let them, son," he said gently.

Sammy nodded, the movement curt, his mouth closed tight.

John opened his mouth, closed it again and had rarely been gladder to see Dean come bounding down the stairs, jacket on and hair in a state that, if in a generous mood, one could perceive as 'combed'.

He ruffled through Sam's hair as he darted past him, eyes dancing every which way in search of his bag.

"Come on, Sam-o, we'll be late."

He just laughed at Sam's scowl.

"Like hell. I'm _so_ walking you to school today."

"Boys," John interrupted just as Sam opened his mouth to reply. Both of them turned to him instantly.

"Come back as soon as school is out. We're going after the woodwose tonight."

Sam just nodded without a word but Dean whooped, throwing his fist in the air. John wasn't sure which reaction he preferred.

* * *

It was somewhere around noon when the phone rang, startling John out of a particularly vague piece of writing on "Common Misconceptions About Bigfoot".

Wincing as he stretched, he followed the insistent ringing to its source and answered, only to find himself greeted by a careful voice asking if he was father of one Sam Winchester.

John's confirmation was answered by a cautious pause.

"Mr. Winchester, it appears that your son was involved in a fight today."

John willed some surprise into his voice.

"A fight?"

"Well, ah, apparently he got into an argument with several boys not attending the school."

A sigh.

"Two of these boys are currently in the hospital, one of them with a broken arm, the other with a broken collar bone."

John was, he had to admit it, impressed. But then he shouldn't have been surprised – Sammy never did anything less than all the way.

Judging from the soothing voice, the person at the other end of the line misinterpreted John's silence as shock or maybe anger.

"It is more than likely that he was provoked, Mr. Winchester. These boys have caused trouble with younger children before, but since they do not actually attend, they are outside the school's jurisdiction. Sam's reaction will probably make them think twice about the hassle they are causing."

There was a nervous breath as John remained silent.

"I do support our students standing up to bullies, but I'm afraid school policy demands that Sam be suspended from school for five days."

John felt a smile creep onto his features.

Sam. His little Sammy. Suspended from school for beating up kids.

"Mr. Winchester? Is this a bad time?"

The tentative voice at the other end of the line snapped John back to reality.

"Actually, this is an excellent time," he said cheerfully, "because I'm going to take Sam out of your school."

* * *


	9. John III

And that's all she wrote, folks!

First off, thank you so so much for the reviews. Seems like tough!Sammy got a lot of love, which makes me very happy.

This chapter is slightly different from the rest (I think you'll notice why) and it's the last and I'm kinda surprised that despite being in the middle of moving, the Winchester boys are still able to make me drop everything and follow the call of fanfiiction. I'm so whipped. ;) So, as always, I hope you enjoy and every review makes me squee with delight.**

* * *

**

John III

* * *

The hunt was prepared quietly.

John didn't mention the phone call and Sammy didn't bring the topic up either, though he did seem even quieter than he had the past days. Only when Dean returned from an errant, buzzing with anticipation and excitement, launched himself at his brother and wrestled him to the ground, did a hesitant smile make an appearance on the younger boy's face that quickly turned into a full-fletched grin.

John called them apart reluctantly. He was glad for the fact that Dean could always lighten the mood, especially with Sam, but he needed his boys calm and focused. It was in situations like this that accidents happened.

And it wasn't like they weren't damaged already. Keeping one eye on Sam as the boy cleaned the guns had revealed to him that he hadn't escaped the brawl completely unscathed. His face flickered into pain whenever he leaned against the back of his chair by accident – probably a few bruised ribs. John would have to take a look at it later.

They had a light dinner. John knew his sons had just as little appetite as he did, but going on a hunt distracted and weakened by hunger was like playing Russian roulette with a shotgun. They were silent safe for the occasional smart-ass remark from Dean that was chuckled at and then forgotten. They were tense, all three of them, the adrenaline crawling down the spine, letting feet tap and fingers drum, blood steadily thumping in their ears. It was like this every time, and John wasn't sure it was ever going to change. You grew accustomed to the cold-blooded killer look in your children's eyes, but the heavy silence was always the same. The soldiers waiting for the word to march off into war.

He collected their plates and rose.

"Dean, put the gear in the car. Sam, get into the bathroom and take your shirt off, I need to take a look at your bruises."

Dean disappeared with a quiet "Yes, sir" and a worried look at his brother. Sam scowled at him but he, too, complied.

John placed the dishes in the sink for later (it always made leaving easier when he left behind unfinished business to get back to) and placed the black bag next to the door of the study where he could easily grab it on the way out before heading to the bathroom. It was small and cramped, dark spots of mould forming on the ceiling. Mary would never have allowed her boys' home to look like this, he thought bitterly as he turned to his son. Sam had stripped off his shirt as ordered and sat on the edge of the bathtub, his eyes anxious and defiant at the same time.

John gestured and he rose, lifting his arms into the air, jaw stubbornly set.

"I'm fine," he muttered, wincing as John laid a hand on a bluish bruise on his side, "I can hunt."

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he turned his son around.

"Yes, I can see that, but I need to know what I'm dealing with."

Placing his hands on Sam's shoulders, he turned him back to face him, breathing a sigh of relief. A little battered but not really hurt. And that against four, two of which he put in the hospital. His son had to be getting better than he thought.

A mix between relief and stubborn triumph made its way across his son's face.

"You're really not making me stay?" he asked, his voice small.

"No."

Despite the upcoming hunt, John suddenly found himself smiling.

"But you need to follow my orders down to a T. Clear, son?"

"Yes, sir," Sammy responded enthusiastically.

John helped him slide his shirt back on and was completely caught off guard when, instead of stepping around him, Sam wrapped his arms around his waist ever so briefly before bounding out the door.

* * *

The woodwose had hidden itself in a dark stretch of wood on the other side of the lake. John steered the car off the street and onto a dirt road, following it to a small clearing. _"Cross it," _his contact had said, _"Then march straight ahead for ten minutes. Abandoned hunting cabin, ideal hide-out."_

Turning off the engine, he fixed both his boys with a hard stare.

"This is how it's going down: Dean, you stay to the right. Sam, you're coming with me and staying behind me at all times. If anything happens, you both know the signal. Once we reach the cabin, Dean covers the back door, Sam, you watch my back. Not matter what happens, _I go in first_."

They'd gone over this before, but John wasn't willing to take a risk. He fixed Sam with a long stare until the boy looked away.

"Time for objections is _over_."

"Yes, sir," they both replied, Sam refusing to meet his eyes, but John was satisfied.

"Knives?" he asked, nodding as both boys placed one hand on the spot where they had hidden their weapons under their clothes in response.

Dean's eyes trailed to his face in expectation.

"What guns are we using, Dad?"

John shook his head.

"No guns. Last time was sloppy and dangerous. This time, we'll be prepared."

Ignoring his son's puzzled look, he reached under his seat to produce the dark bag. Excitement gleamed in Dean's eyes as he recognized it for what it was – the mystery package he had picked up from John's contact a few days ago.

"What is it?" his son asked, biting down on his lower lip in anticipation.

John bit back a snort as he reached inside, revealing a large, vicious and dangerous crossbow. Dean leaned forward, his mouth forming a perfect "o" as his gleaming eyes took in the bolts coated with silver and the protective signs engraved into the polished wood.

"Wow," his oldest breathed.

John knew there was a positively evil gleam in his eye as he loaded the weapon, relishing in the metallic clanking as the first bolt slid into place.

"This time, we're taking him down."

He heard Sam's surprised hiss a split second before he saw it himself – the woodwose. It stood at the other end of the clearing, sheltered by the darkness between the trees, unmoving. It had a humanoid body, taller than any of them, and the same hair that coated its body graced its face, the eyes wide and apprehensive.

Raising the crossbow into the air, John reached for the handle of the door, his voice low and leaving no room to argue.

"Dean, get the gun. Get out of the car slowly, if it comes for you, shoot at it. Sam, you stay in the car. Lock the doors once we're out. If something happens to us, you go call Bobby. Everyone clear?"

A twin "Yes, sir" answered him as he opened the door and stepped out onto the forest floor.

His ears picked up on the sound of a second car door slamming shut, the metallic clink of the safety. He lowered the crossbow, aiming straight at their target. The woodwose stood motionless, watching them, watching him, watching death drawing closer.

What the hell was it waiting for?

He barely had the time to register the movement before it was suddenly at him. He blocked the blow, hadn't anticipated the strength and speed of the thing as its punch just swept him off his feet. He was hurled several feet through the air, felt the crossbow slide from his grasp and clatter to the ground. He gasped as he landed heavily, muscles groaning under the impact.

The creature advanced on Dean now, but his son was prepared, ducked a few blows, even aimed a swing at it himself but it dodged away. Dean feigned left, then swung right and John nearly groaned as the kid left himself wide open.

_I told him to keep his guard up!_

"Dean…!" he cried out as a warning, but the thing had already rammed its fist into his solar plexus. The boy gasped for air as he went straight to the ground. John jumped it again, only to find himself elbowed out of the way once more. Damn, but that thing was strong.

He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and was, for a moment, surprised his heart didn't stop. Having thrown open the door, Sam was sprinting top speed at his brother and the woodwose, face showing nothing but determination.

"SAM!" he bellowed, but the boy didn't stop, didn't react. He jumped the creature, wrapping himself around him, holding on tight.

It let go of Dean to deal with the new attacker while his oldest scrambled backwards, hands clawing wildly around him for the weapon. The woodwose struggled (was Sammy really that strong already?) and grunted; a sudden movement set him free, sent Sammy flying away from him.

For a split second, the only thing John saw was his youngest's pain-filled expression, the only sound he heard the sharp hiss of pain as his son slammed against the side of the car, arms flailing. He wasn't even aware he was moving until the fingers closed around the woodwose's neck, squeezed tightly.

It rounded on him, gripped his throat, fangs bared in a menacing hiss as it slammed him hard against the rough bark of a nearby tree, held him there. Stars danced in front of his eyes. He tightened his grip around the woodwose's neck, panting hard, the roar of his blood the only sound he could hear. Over the creature's shoulder he saw Dean struggling to get up, groaning as he propped himself on his elbows. Throwing himself around, the boy grabbed the weapon next to him, his fingers tightening around it to keep it from shaking as he lifted it into the air.

"Yo, asshole!" he called.

The creature released John, leaving him to drop back against the rough bark of the tree, his hand instinctively flying to his throat. He watched, his eyes wide, as it turned to his son, face contorted with anger.

There was a soft swish and the hiss of the bolt slicing the air before the metal pierced the woodwose's chest, it's silver-coated tip protruding from the creature's back. It crumbled to the ground immediately, the expression on its face changing from one of surprise to pain to… nothing. Death looked like nothing at all. Just limp and still and dead.

John went for Sam first, running his hands over the boy's side and back to ensure nothing was more than bruised. As he checked the neck as well, he scowled at his youngest.

"I told you to stay in the car," he growled.

The usual hint of the defiance crept into Sam's eyes at the tone.

"You were in trouble, Dad."

John hated it, the "You can't make me believe anything you say"-tone in the boy's voice, but now wasn't the time. He turned to Dean who had just managed to struggle to his feet, subjecting him to the same procedure.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, fine," his oldest muttered breathlessly, trying to bat his hands away, "just got the wind knocked out of me."

John shot him a glare – it still worked on Dean, at least. His son stood still long enough for him to check for broken bones, but at the "All clear"-pat on his shoulder, he stalked over to the body and kicked it in the ribs.

"And that's for my face!"

Shaking his head, John turned back to his younger son.

"Sam, you wait here," he instructed, "Dean, you take the feet."

Taking the creature by the arms, he heaved it into the air, Dean following his example.

They dragged the creature deep into the forest, far enough to ensure no one saw the fire by accident. Splashing accelerant onto the corpse, John saw Dean settle down on the ground a small way off out of the corner of his eyes. He lit a match and flicked it at the body, stepping back as flames roared up almost immediately. He moved back to stand next to Dean and smiled as his boy wrinkled his nose at the smell of burning flesh. They watched in silence as the flames danced and licked at skin and bones, lighting up their faces and reflecting in their eyes. John was almost surprised – it wasn't like Dean to stay silent for this long, even at a moment as grave as this one. There had to be a smart-ass comment hidden somewhere behind those lips pressed tightly together.

He placed a hand lightly on Dean's shoulder. His son jumped, apparently startled out of deep thought.

John smiled at him.

"I thought you liked the scars."

Dean shrugged.

"Yeah, well, they suck. I'm getting tired of looking in the mirror and seeing these bloody gashes on my beautiful face."

John scrutinized the cuts closely, seeing no sign that Dean should worry – they were healing nicely and, chances were, his son wouldn't even end up with the tainted face he dreaded so much.

John smiled again as he squeezed his shoulder.

"Don't worry," he told him with a wink, "Chicks dig scars."

* * *

Their clothes stank of smoke and burnt flesh as they climbed back into the car. Sam made a point of not looking their way but John could see him quickly scan their movements for possible injuries once they had settled.

Dean stretched his arms, pressing against the roof of the car as he cracked his neck.

"Wow, I'm beat!" he confessed with a yawn.

John took the opportunity to lightly tap his torso where the woodwose had gotten him, rewarded by a wince.

"That'll be a bruise," he concluded dryly, "I told you to-"

"Keep my guard up, I know. I'm sorry."

John gave his son a brief nod as he stored the crossbow back in the bag under his seat.

"That was good work, Dean."

His son beamed, but John felt more miserable than he had in a long time. He was supposed to smile like that when he got a car for his birthday, not when he killed for the first time.

"Dad?"

Dean's voice was unusually quiet.

"Next time we stay somewhere for a bit, can I get my driver's license?"

John smiled as he started the car.

"Yes, Dean, you can," he said with a nod, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as Dean celebrated with an overjoyed "All right!" and a drum roll with his fingers on the dashboard.

Checking the rearview mirror, the smile was gone and John bit back a sigh.

Sammy, his face wooden, his jaw clenched, was staring out the window. His arms were crossed in front of his chest in a way that seemed incredibly familiar to John, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why. Turning from the dirt road onto smooth pavement, John glanced from Sam with his stony eyes to Dean who was sorting through the box with cassette tapes with a goofy smile on his face, and he couldn't help but wonder if anything would ever be easy with his boys.

* * *

**Fin**


End file.
